


Where the Roads Meet

by chanting_lotus



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Multi, POV Multiple, Slow Build, The Hale Family, The Hale Pack - Freeform, Were-Creatures, everyone is nobility, for really everyone, our boys live, took some plot threads from got not going to lie, underage but its medieval so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:22:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 26
Words: 130,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22744729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanting_lotus/pseuds/chanting_lotus
Summary: “Stiles. Thank you for coming. I have something I would like to discuss with you.”Of course you do, Stiles thought. Why else would you call me here? “Does it perhaps have anything to do with that letter?” Now that his king father had moved closer, Stiles could see the sigil on it. It was a small trout, from one of their fishing villages along the west. Jade Cove or maybe Jade Bay. He could never recall all their names, or the lords who ruled over them, especially since almost all had decided to name their lands after the Jade Sea next to them. So many Jades and even a man as well informed as Stiles could get lost.The king looked down at the parchment in his hand before blinking a few times. “No, not this letter.” He strode over to his desk and shifted around the scrolls for a few minutes. “This is the one I wanted to discuss with you.”Stiles liked the sigil of that one a lot less. It was a wolf head, tilted up to howl, encased in green wax. The sigil of the Queen of Hale Kingdom. “What counsel could I possibly give between two rulers?” Stiles aimed a joke.“It’s not your counsel I need,” King Thomas sighed. “It’s your hand.”
Relationships: Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Lydia Martin/Jordan Parrish
Comments: 115
Kudos: 460





	1. Prologue

Joren Baker was sleeping when they came to his village. His mother shook him awake, her face half-shadowed as she leaned over him. “Get up!” She hissed. Orange hues seemed to dance outside his window as he blinked awake. There was the thudding of hoofbeats, and the shrill sounds of screams. His mother, a homely woman named Margaret, pulled him to his feet.

“What’s going on?” Joren asked. He cast a look around his room for some pants.

“I don’t know,” Margaret responded. Her hair, usually impeccable, was falling from her sleeping bun is large wisps. She only had her nightgown on, a grey and coarse material that fell somewhat past her knees. “Knights from the Argent kingdom are out there, in the square, killing. It’s only a matter of time before they start opening homes up.”

Terror filled the young boy. And young he was, a small lad for the ten years he had lived. It had helped his parents, for when a goat had scrambled somewhere improbable, he could squirrel up after it. “Why? What do they want?”

Metal clanged from outside the window, ringing through the room. Margaret gripped his arms to turn Joren to face her. “That doesn’t matter now. Take a horse from the stables, ride for Hale Castle. Queen Talia will send men back with you, I swear it.” She pushed him towards the door.

“What about you?” Joren looked at her. She glanced back down at him, her mouth a grim line. She had blue eyes like him, the kind that made the baker’s daughter and the inn keep’s niece blush. In that moment, the crow’s feet and other weary lines around her face made her look ancient to Joren.

“They are knights. Knights of the Argent Kingdom, yes, but knights none the less. They won’t kill a defenseless woman.”

She hurried them along the house’s length. It was a small and modest home, two rooms and a place to sup, but it was good for a farmer and his family. “You’ll take the backdoor,” Margaret decided.

When they opened the entrance, the one that did not spill out into the village but rather towards their farm, Joren saw that their fields had been set aflame. The frost that regularly dusted the ground had melted but done nothing to prevent the blaze. The stables lay on the far side of the field, past all the fire and smoke. From here, Joren could hear the screams of fright from the horses.

Joren spun to look at Margaret. “I’m going to let the rest of the horses out. Mother, you could leave with me.”

Margaret smiled at him. “Your father married me for many a reason, but not for my horse riding. I would slow you down, and you need speed.” Joren felt his lungs constrict and it was as if his legs battled his mind on whether they should collapse. “Go.” She urged him.

Joren ran to the horses.

\--

The road to Hale Castle was long, but one that he was familiar with. After several hours, when the sun was high in the sky, Joren knew that none of the Argent knights were riding after him. It was only then that Joren dismounted and tied his horse to a tree. He spent the next hour crying, feeling untethered and scared. The road was one that he took with his parents often. They would all go to the castle, with their wagon loaded with grain and salted goat and horse meat. His mother would sing tavern songs to make him chuckle, and he would dart ahead to pick flowers.

After the hour was up, Joren chastised himself for wasting time on the trivialities of emotion. If he focused on how he felt, then he could be a day or more later to the castle. That would be a day or two later to his home. Margaret was waiting, waiting for him to come back with knights of Hale.

He rode for several more hours, stopping in intervals to rub warmth into his legs. While he wore thick sheep fur and leather from their skin, Hale Castle was farther north than he would prefer to travel with only his night clothes. When the sky was only dusted with the same orange that he saw from his bed window, he stopped his horse for the night. Joren knew how to make a trap for rabbits or squirrels from his father—a man who was named Joseph. He had died two winters past, when fever took him.

But that was not what Joren thought about as he tied the knots for the trap. There was barely enough rope in the pack that he had slung on the horse along with its saddle, but he could reuse it as long as he didn’t nick it. They kept the packs with the saddles for journeys, whether those journeys had been planned or not. Inside the pack was a tiny knife, the rope, and a blanket to sleep on.

Joren focused on how his father had shown him, several times, how to tie the knots before actually tightening them. He remembered how he had proudly brought back the first squirrel he had ever trapped, old and nearly blind and thin, but his father had hooted and picked him up to swing around. He had carried Joren back to Margaret, boasting of how capable of a hunter their son was. His father had caught bigger game, but that night they added his squirrel to the pot of stew. It had been tough, and took altogether too long to chew, but Joren had never tasted stew so good.

Tonight, he had captured a snow rabbit. The only part of the rabbit that wasn’t as white as the surroundings was its coal-black eyes. Joren tried not look in them as he snapped its neck and worked on skinning the creature. He skewered it, planning on storing the rest for the next night when he finished cooking it. The meat made his mouth water and when it was finally cooked, an eternity past, the juices ran down his chin and onto his sheep skin.

Somewhere in the wood, a wolf howled. If Joren was anywhere else in the world, he might have feared that a beast would come prowling around at the smell of the rabbit, ready to cut down a boy for it. These woods resided in the Hale Kingdom though, and man and wolf were often the same. Should the howler creep to his encampment, they would surely shift back to their man skin and share the fire with him. It was this knowledge that allowed Joren to drift to sleep.

The next day had him riding hard, recognizing the dark trees that ran past him. As the trees became taller, the wood darker, and the trunk wider, he knew he moved closer to the castle. Joren would reach it on the morrow, before the noon. He passed several wagons and saw wolves of varying sizes and shape dart through the woods around the trail.

That night, he made camp early, on an outcropping of rock that he could sweep the foot of snow off of. It would make a rough sleep but at least he wouldn’t wake up soaked to the bone. While he worked to dry part of the rock enough to light a fire, a man and his daughter stepped out of the woods.

“Good morrow.” The man called to Joren.

Joren looked at both of them. They wore shirts and pants that were thinner and appeared to be barefoot. They were both tan-skinned, with dark eyes and hair that was wild. The girl, even smaller than Joren, held a set of rabbits in her hand, bloodied with teeth marks in it. Wolves, Joren thought. “Good morrow.” Joren responded.

“We were hoping to share that fire there with you, boy.” The wolf gestured to the small amount of dry wood that Joren was able to find. “We have meat that we could share.” He offered.

“I have a little bit of rabbit left over from last night when I caught it, but the fire can cook more.”

The two walked over to him while he still worked the flint over the leaves and wood. The man watched him struggle for a moment before taking the flint from him. “My name’s Cal. My daughter is Lauren.” He struck at the flint hard enough to break it and yet, it stayed strong and the flicker caught the leaves. Smoke begin to drift up from the fire.

“Lauren, go and scrape some bark off the trees. It’ll make good tinder to get this wood to light.” The girl, Lauren, dropped the rabbits next to Joren and darted off to do as her father said.

“My name’s Joren.” Cal crouched near the bottom of the fire pit, blowing on the leaves to encourage them to catch. The embers grew brighter. “Are you also headed to see the Queen?”

Cal nodded. “Aye, we’re from Little Branch.” Joren knew of that place, a few miles south and east of his village. It was close enough to the Silver Sea that it was often used as a port for the trade between the Argent Kingdom and the Hale Kingdom. Sailors would dock there for a fortnight, and make part-lives, his father used to say. Take wives and father children, that they would see once every six months while on route of their job, before going home to their true wives and children, if those are from further south or further north than the Little Branch village. “A few days past, an Argent ship docked at our ports. We thought they were bringing up maybe wine or cheese to the lords and ladies up here, but instead, when the men stepped off their ship, they took to pillaging our home. They set fire to the inn and looted from the blacksmith and slaughtered the butcher. I would have stayed and fought, but my daughter isn’t old enough to defend herself and I couldn’t have her come up here alone, could I? Rapers and thieves crawl along this path, looking for a young girl such as herself. So, I took us both up the Queen’s path to speak about the injustice.”

While he spoke, Lauren had returned with her shirt as a makeshift-basket to carry a pile of bark. Cal pulled her toward the fire and had her dump the wood chips onto the barely-lit fire. For a moment, the smoke was smothered out and it appeared as if they had killed the embers. Then edges of the wood chips began to catch and crinkle from the heat. Joren watched it all while trying to quash the feeling that something was wrong, if two southern villages of Hale were attacked by Argent men. “What brings you up toward the Queen, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Cal had a wide face, crooked teeth and crow’s feet around his eyes, like Joren’s mother. He watched Joren with his dark eyes, and Joren couldn’t decipher what he was thinking. “I’m from Grey Stone.” Joren started. “Argent men attacked us as well, and my mom told me to get men from the Queen to help our village. She stayed back, said that she would slow me down. Said that they wouldn’t hurt a woman, you don’t think,” Joren cut himself off before he could finish, shaking like a leaf.

A warm hand settled on his shoulder, warmer than any human’s touch. He knew that wolves ran hot, knew that was why the cold climate suited them and that was why they needed less clothing that a human like him. “Mother Moon will protect her children.” Cal promised. “I’m sure your mother is waiting for you, so you best get the men quick, so she doesn’t scold you for making her wait.”

Joren smiled at that. He could just picture Margaret on the steps of their home, with her light blue dress on and an apron tied over it. Her bun of grey hair would be pulled tight up on her head, and her eyes would follow Joren as he ran to her. She’d catch him and tell him good work, for getting the men, but what took him so long? The knights who attacked them grew old and died while she waited on him.

He missed the look that Cal threw to his daughter, tight and worried. She stood behind them both, fidgeting on her feet. The fire was well and good started now. She picked up one of the rabbits and began skinning it.

Joren watched her, for she had no knife to cut the skin off and yet did it cleaner than he had ever accomplished. Lauren instead had claws where her fingernails had been, her blade a true part of her body, instead of something she needed to learn to wield. She noticed him watching her and shot a cheeky grin at him. Her hair fell in clumps around her shoulders and she looked as feral as an actual wolf.

Lauren made quick work of the rabbit and soon, both were cooking above the fire. Fats dripped into the flame, loud sizzles and pops responding. Cal asked if he knew any songs, and Joren sang a bawdy tune about the young Princess Cora and the time she shifted and hid from her family for a whole moon by confusing her scent from rolling around in horse dung.

The night passed around the fire and his blanket was warm when Joren retired to it. Sleep came easier than it did the nights before, dawn broke and Cal shook him awake. He told Joren that they were going to take their leave and when Joren had finished waking, he realized there was a rabbit leg left near the smoldering remains of the fire. He ate quickly, drinking a little of the water that remained in his skin before saddling back onto his horse. If he was fast about it, he stood a chance of being able to speak to the Queen today at court, instead of waiting till the next day.

Queen Talia Hale always held court outside, among the biggest trees that Joren had ever seen. Behind the trees was the stone castle, peeking out through the leaves. It had four towers, one facing in every direction. Each tower was a different color stone from the far reaches of the Hale Kingdom, with the east tower being a light grey that was pulled and sanded around his village. It was their namesake, after all. The west tower was pure white stone, and it was rumored that the squires were sent to clean it or even the Queen’s own children when they misbehaved. It shone even at night and came from Moonpearl, where the Queen’s lord brother reigned. His father told him about how at Moonpearl, when the moon hung fat and heavy in the sky and made night shine like day, that the rocks in the land glowed back just as brightly.

The south tower was red stone, coming from a farming town that brushes against the neighboring kingdom, Stilinski. They were mainly a grain village, with rich earth that was said to be as red as blood. Looking on the towers, Joren was inclined to agree. And the north tower was black stone. It came from where no village was, at the edge of the kingdom, and the edge of the world. The Queens of old had sent their knights and masons and their strongest men to as far north as they could, where many had died in the night due to the bone-breaking cold to find if there was a way to live up there. The resounding answer had been no, not even for the wolves, but they had found rock that was so black that at night it was as if you were walking on the sky.

The masons had fashioned the rocks into bricks, and the men had dragged them all the way back to the castle. Each tower stood tall and proud, with interconnecting bridges of varying color to connect each, and rooms for the servants below the bridges.

The stones were mixed everywhere else in the castle besides the towers for each had strengths, but also weaknesses that the builders had hoped to subvert. The red stone would turn soft when it sleeted here during the summer, and the black stone was fragile when held against flame. It would crack open and shatter into a dozen pieces when heated. The grey stone, while tough, did poorly when dry. It became so rough that the masons could not work with it and scraping yourself against it would cause blood to well up.

The white stone, beautiful, strong and smooth did not seem to have any actual weakness. It had only been considered poor stone when, a few Queens before, the castle attempted to blow out all the candles to hide her from a scorned lover. This Queen was one of few that was not Queen and Alpha. She took to the white tower, for he could not soften the stone or crack it. However, the glow of the stone had given her away and he climbed up the tower and cut her down where she stood.

While the castle showed the unity of the kingdom, Queen Talia preferred the quiet wood, with more space than any castle could hold, to have court.

Joren rode his horse to where he saw other people standing and waiting. He dismounted and walked with his horse by bridle to the end. Queen Talia couldn’t even be seen from this distance, tight knot of worry settling inside his breast. He spied Cal several people before him, clutching his daughter’s hand.

The woods were older than the castle, and Joren remarked on their size as he waited. It is said that the Hale pack used to roam these woods, before they found their man skins. All other wolves would bow to them and all creatures of the wood feared them. One day, a Hale princess spied a human hunter in the wood and cried to Mother Moon about her love for him. Mother Moon answered her pleas by gifting her with human skin, but also made the Hale princess keep her claws and teeth and eyes of the wolf. She went to the human hunter and he fell in love with her as well. But the Hale princess missed her wolf family terribly and cried to Mother Moon about her aching heart. Mother Moon answered her pleas but fashioning a way for the Hales to move between human and wolf skin, so that they may always seek comfort where they wish.

Mother Moon had one request for the Hales, that when they build their stone homes and grow their size, they do not cut down the trees in this grove. For these trees were fashioned by Mother Moon herself, to grow in her light instead of the rays of the sun. These trees were the children of Mother Moon and should not be felled lest she turn her heart away from all wolves forever.

Joren could understand why the goddess may not wish for there to be harm to such dark, beautiful trees. The wood was nearly black, and the bark was smooth all the way up the trunk. The trunk appeared to be made of many hardened vines, so close together that there were no gaps to cling to. The large leaves that hung heavy on the branches were a deep green, wide and coarse to the touch.

The line shuffled ahead, step by step. Each step took Jordan farther into the grove, where the trees were even larger. At one point, he reached a tree that was as long as his horse and so tall he feared he couldn’t see the top of it. Sounds were muffled in the grove and the air felt like magic was upon them.

Finally, as the sun began to creep below the trees, Joren made it to what constituted the audience room. Queen Talia Hale sat regal upon a pallet of soft cloth and light colors, with her court surrounding her. Some sat on pallets like her, others stood and even others had chosen hard, wooden seats. Joren watched as Cal moved forward with Lauren and expressed his complaint.

The Queen turned her head to a man standing next to her, frowning before whispering something to him. Undoubtedly, every wolf in the clearing had heard what she said, but the words were lost to Joren. It was somewhat from how far he was from her, but also because she was using the wolf language. Joren’s father had known enough of the rough language to get by in the marketplace, but Joren had never been able to pick it up. To him, it sounded like growls that settled in the back throat and yips that originated in sound from the nose. The man who stood at Queen Talia’s right replied just as quietly, but in human tongue.

Joren recognized that this man was not King Conan Hale. He was plump, with skin that was darker than even the wolves surrounding him, and a bald head and a short cropping of hair surrounding his mouth. He wore an ivory doublet and brown breeches. When he spoke, he spread his hands in front of him to gesticulate.

Queen Talia cleared her throat, though the grove was already silent. “I have heard your complaint, and I will send soldiers and healers back to Little Branch with you. May Mother Moon protect you, child.”

Joren could hear Cal’s response. “And may Mother Moon protect you as well, my Queen.” He bowed deeply to her, pulling his daughter down into a curtsy as well. Queen Talia nodded her agreement before he moved to leave.

The next several people had complaints about grain and thieves and wives. Joren paid them no mind and instead focused on the court. Queen Talia had the clear appearance of a shifter about her, with black hair and eyes, full lips and sharp cheekbones. Her skin was smooth, for wolves aged differently than humans. Her hair was oiled until it shone, hung loose and free as was wolf custom, and even sitting there in a royal dress, her stature spoke of the strength in her body. The dress she wore was a deep green, set to match the leaves above her. It had a high neck line and the arms swooped low. Instead of having any ornate trim-line, there was plain black. Her crown was a simple one, made of silver and fashioned to look like small leaves circling her head. Joren likened her to the trees she surrounded herself with.

Her daughter, Princess Laura Hale sat slightly below and to the side of her. She wore a green dress as well, but it was layered to have the inner dressings be a bright yellow, which she also chose as her hemline. She looked like summer come to life, a younger, less stern version of the Queen. She had a slight curve to her stomach under her dress, barely showing. Joren remembered when his mother had come home one day from the market and told him how the princess was expecting.

Princess Laura’s brothers, Prince Conan Hale and Prince Derrik Hale stood behind both of them, on the left. Prince Conan wore a lavender doublet, and pants that were bleached to the nearest white that the leather could hold. On top of the lavender top was a heavy coat of wolf fur. It was a white coat, supple and full. Prince Conan had it fashioned so that tufts of the fur were braided with pieces of soft gold. He had tan boots and gloves, that had fur sticking out from both. He stood out among the rest of his family, just as his human status did.

When he was born, apparently, rumors swept across the lands about the Queen taking a consort. How else could two wolves birth a human? However, as Prince Conan grew, he became almost twin of his King father. A lighter complexion than most wolves, with hazel eyes and sandy hair. He shared the eyes with his brother, Prince Derrik, but that is where the similarities ceased.

Prince Derrik was severe in face, a stern look that mirrored his mother. While the Queen would often times lighten her features with a smile, the same could not be said for Prince Derrik. Joren had heard about when the wolf had lost a love, how he had stayed between his wolf skin and his human skin. The rumors said he kept the teeth of his wolf form and would snarl at anyone that came close. He spent his days whittling down his claws by scratching at the walls of his rooms. Joren’s mother would spin stories of how the prince would come to their home and eat him whole if he misbehaved.

As Joren looked at him however, he looked as much man as any other wolf in the clearing. He was tan, with a short cropping of hair and stubble that covered his jaw. He wore only a shirt and breeches, all that a wolf would need to stay warm. Both were black, and the shirt had the deep green trim. The fabric probably came from the same swath as the Queen’s dress.

A knight took his horse from his hands as he shuffled closer to his Queen. The soldiers in the Hale Kingdom usually wore stiff leathers above their clothing, easy to move in and able to shift in. Injuries healed faster on wolves, so they needed less steel than humans. Most of the Hale soldiers were wolves, and it was easy to pick out the human ones.

He looked at the wolf, who nodded towards Queen Talia. Joren moved forward, dipping into a bow before even looking in her eyes. “My Queen,” His voice cracked.

“Hello, child. What do you require of me?” Queen Talia asked perfunctorily.

Joren raised his eyes, before averting them. Others in his village, those that stood here before him, had said that it was hard to look the Queen in the eye and Joren didn’t understand. Now, with something queer tugging in his gut, it made much more sense. “My Grace, my name is Joren Baker. I live in Grey Stone.” He took a breath. “A few nights ago, my mother woke me to Argent knights attacking and burning our village. She bid me to come before you and beg for knights to take back home.”

There was a smattering of noise around the court. He dared a chance to look around. All three of the Queen’s children looked perplexed, Princess Laura and Prince Conan looking to their mother. Prince Derrik looked directly at Joren. When he noticed, Joren dropped his eyes, fear crawling up his spine. Prince Derrik looked to be furious at him for the simple reason of existing.

The strange man dipped close to whisper in the Queen’s ear. She said something back, too low for Joren to hear.

Queen Talia raised a hand. “Are you certain that it was men from the Argent Kingdom?”

“I never saw them.” Joren started. “But my mother did, and she has housed many of their men, so she knows their sigils, and she said they were so they were.” He finished more firmly that he had begun.

Queen Talia evaluated him for a moment. “Very well. I will give the same to Grey Stone as I have to Little Branch—thirty men to defend them, and ten healers to set to rights my people. May Mother Moon protect you.”

“May Mother Moon protect you as well, my Queen.” Joren responded. She clapped her hands, frown tugging down her features.

“Court is adjourned for today, my ladies. There are other matters that I must attend to. We will continue on the morrow. May Mother Moon protect you.”

There was an echo of the sentiment back to the Queen. She nodded at them all, before turning and sweeping towards the castle. A troop of men followed closely behind her with the guise of protecting her. Joren was young, and it was the first time he had spoken directly to the Queen, but he had no doubt that she did not require even a third of them.

The ladies and lords of the court followed after her. Joren couldn’t pick up much from the subdued conversations they were having, before the man who took his horse touched his shoulder. The palm was warmer than it should be naturally, surrounded by this much snow.

“I’ll take you to the barracks, so that we can collect the men necessary to go back to Grey Stone. My name’s Ivan.” Joren shivered while he nodded. Ivan smiled at him, a slow, sure exposure of teeth. It made Joren feel more comfortable. “We’ll also find you some suitable clothes, so that you don’t lose any limbs waiting around in the snow.”


	2. Stiles

King Thomas had summoned Prince Stiles to his study. Stiles had never enjoyed the room, large and airy as it was. There were books that lined three walls, and the fourth held portraits and a fire place. The portraits were of kings passed, those vain enough to think that their likeness needed to lord over the next one for as long as his frame hung there. Even his grandfather now had a spot on that wall, the man who pinched Stiles’ cheeks hard enough to bruise when he was younger, who always smelled of wine and cheese. He had half a mind to toss all the portraits into the fire each time he ventured into the room. Along with all the books. Each was as unimportant as the last; there was a whole row of books that encased transcripts of what the castle ate over two hundred years ago. He suspected that the books were placed here by some old king who had hoped to appear learnt by having them.

But it was not these things that Stiles despised about the room, for these things, while irritating, was not what truly upset him. King Thomas rarely called upon Stiles there, would rather talk to him during a walk through their gardens or at their table. If he was calling Stiles up to his study, it was because he wanted to talk to him as King Thomas, not as his king father.

There were only a few times that Stiles could recall being called in the study: when his grandfather died, when his king father was to be remarried, when Scot was to be betrothed to Princess Allison Argent of the Argent Kingdom, and when his mother passed. Each time bespoke of change and Stiles was loathe of change. When he reached the doors, two knights who had sworn to protect his king father night and day stood at attention.

It was Ser Fletcher and Ser Odo of Roses Keep, two of the younger, more genial knights. Ser Fletcher came from a long line of Fletchers, and they held lands near the border with the Martin-to-Argent kingdom known as the Arrow’s Gate. The Fletcher lands were narrow, stuck between two strong mountains. The tops of the mountains were too sharp and high to allow for travel, so anyone that wished to travel from the Martin, or now Argent, kingdom must go the long way round or treat with the Fletcher house.

Ser Odo of Roses Keep was a recently-made knight. He had been squiring down at Roses Keep, for Lord Cisten, when a haggard pack of shifters had attacked their castle. Ser Odo had remembered that there was a tunnel beneath the kitchens to the cheese cellar, a whole three hundred yards from the shifters. He took Lord Cisten’s family there and stored them, the pungent smell and deep underground hiding them from the pack. Odo’s quick-thinking had saved the families lives, if not their jewelry, and earned his knighthood.

“King Thomas has want of me.” Stiles said. “I’m to meet him inside as soon as I can.” The knights nodded, the sound of their armor clanking as they shifted out of the way of the door. Ser Odo opened it slightly so that Stiles might dart inside before he closed it again. Stiles listened to the sound of the clanking as they slid back in front of the doors.

His king father had his back to him when he entered. Stiles noted that he had a letter in his hand, but he couldn’t begin to guess the contents. He coughed to alert the King of his presence. King Thomas was an older gentleman, with lines that etched onto his face and showed the emotions he felt over the years. Many deepened when he frowned, and very few did when he smiled. His hair, of which there was little, was a sandy grey but he had quick green eyes and strong shoulders. He looked a king, even with the crown on his desk beside him instead of placed upon his head.

King Thomas wore a deep red doublet, the trim an eye-catching silver. He had his wedding ring on his hand, a band of pure gold, soft enough that he could mold as his finger shifted. His pants were black, a cotton that looked so comfortable that it must have taken a month of beating to break the material. His crown was also gold, a tall band that had three raised peaks on it. Each peak ended with a jewel, one for each of the Gods: a white one on the left for Life, a black one on the right for Death, and a glowing orange one in the center peak, for the Stranger.

“Son,” King Thomas turned to greet Stiles. There was hesitancy in his voice.

“My King,” Stiles responded coolly. He knew that it was a low cut, but in here his father would remember well that he resided over Stiles. They were not equals, and his word could forever rearrange Stiles’ life.

King Thomas winced; the message received. “Stiles. Thank you for coming. I have something I would like to discuss with you.”

_Of course you do_ , Stiles thought. _Why else would you call me here?_ “Does it perhaps have anything to do with that letter?” Now that his king father had moved closer, Stiles could see the sigil on it. It was a small trout, from one of their fishing villages along the west. Jade Cove or maybe Jade Bay. He could never recall all their names, or the lords who ruled over them, especially since almost all had decided to name their lands after the Jade Sea next to them. So many Jades and even a man as well informed as Stiles could get lost.

The king looked down at the parchment in his hand before blinking a few times. “No, not this letter.” He strode over to his desk and shifted around the scrolls for a few minutes. “This is the one I wanted to discuss with you.”

Stiles liked the sigil of that one a lot less. It was a wolf head, tilted up to howl, encased in green wax. The sigil of the Queen of Hale Kingdom. “What counsel could I possibly give between two rulers?” Stiles aimed a joke.

“It’s not your counsel I need,” King Thomas sighed. “It’s your hand.”

It took a full moment before Stiles processed what his king father meant. “You must be joking.”

King Thomas had married his mother out of a betrothal agreement with the Argents, who at that time had been only the lords of Havenstill, the largest keep in the Martin Kingdom short of King Josiah Martin’s lands. It was used to show the kingdom’s alliances and after Gerard Argent had cut down the Martins and his queen mother was cold in her grave, his birth showed to allegiance to the new King in the lands. Then, his king father had married a new woman, someone with no titles or lands but love in her heart for King Thomas. It was here, in this study, that King Thomas swore to his son that he would be allowed to marry whomever his heart chose.

And it was here, in this study, where he changed his word.

“Stiles listen to me, please. Queen Talia wrote that there have been Martin men, looting and raiding the villages along her southeast border. She claims this has been going on for months.” King Thomas moved over to the desk to pour some juice from a jug into two glass cups for them. “Queen Talia wrote to King Gerard to demand a meaning to this, and when he deigned to reply, he stated that he had given one of his men Sleet’s Keep to thank him for his help of claiming the throne. He assured her that he would talk to his man, and that he must be mistaken of where the borders lie.”

Stiles thought that even if the man was uncertain of where the borders lay, that he wasn’t burning and pillaging those on the Martin side. He set the thought aside however, since agreeing that it was queer was likely what the king wanted. “I don’t see how that involves me.”

King Thomas handed his son a cup of juice. The drink came from the wineries that circled around their castle. Some of the vines even crept up their walls, and if you were at the correct window, you could lean out and pluck off grapes from the plant. If you were a floor lower at a different window, you may not even be able to see outside of it due to how thick the foliage would be.

“Let me finish, son. Queen Talia is almost certain that this new found hostility is due to the dissolved betrothal agreement between Princess Katherine and Prince Derrik.”

“That happened over three years ago, so I don’t know why that would now be an issue.” When Princess Katherine and Prince Derrik had broken their agreement, the Hales instead chose to wed Princess Laura with one of the Argents, Ian Hale. He had taken her name, as was custom in the Hale Kingdom. Stiles remembered their wedding in the Argent Kingdom, inside the Great Hall. He knew that there was another ceremony held back in Hale, one that only the wolves were privy to. It was to honor their goddess, the Mother Moon.

“Yes, three years ago the prince and Princess Katherine decided to part. It was because Prince Derrik had found someone to love, or so he thought. She was taken from him less than a year later.” Both of the men paused, a deep-set sadness silencing the room. “A year ago, King Gerard offered her hand to him again. And he refused.”

“Why?” Stiles was confused. It would make no sense to not attempt to broker peace between the two kingdoms, with a match that was already received well once before. The offer must have been made quietly, as this was the first time Stiles had heard of it.

King Thomas shrugged. “Queen Talia won’t tell me the reason for it. However, she has made it clear that she thinks one marriage between the families should be enough.” Silently, Stiles agreed. If you mixed too many of the children together, the blood would be bad for the next generation. Then, if there was talk of war, none of the children could marry between the kingdoms for they would all be cousins.

“That still doesn’t explain why we’re talking about me becoming betrothed.” Stiles pointed out.

“The Queen suggests that it may be beneficial to remind the Argents that they are not the only one with alliances to the Stilinski Kingdom. It seems, to her, the best course of action is to allow Scot to continue his betrothal to Princess Allison. And for you to find a match among the Hale children.”

“The Argents will see it as the threat that Queen Talia plans it to be.” Stiles could see the benefit in the plan, the benefit specifically for the Hale Kingdom. But he also noticed the cracks, and it would foolish to assume that the enemy wouldn’t as well.

“They will.” His king father agreed. “But it is a heavy threat – if King Gerard was to order his men to march into Hale, then we could pull Scot from his family and he would be facing two times the amount of swords than Queen Talia holds alone. He would be losing a betrothal and fighting a war on all sides.” The king took a sip of his juice, smelling it for a moment before setting the cup back down on the desk. “Besides, how do you think it would go for us if we refused Queen Talia out of hand?”

Stiles opened his mouth to respond, to say that it didn’t matter because then she’d be fighting a war from all sides. However, he had met Queen Talia. She listened to all counsel that she could get, never made a choice without weighing the consequences. She’d find a way to settle the issue with Argent, and then she would set her sights on Stilinski. He took a deep breathe. “Who did she suggest for me?”

His king father scanned back over the letter. “She suggests no one. In fact, she said she would bring all eligible Hale heirs to stay with us for months’ time. Herself.”

“Herself?” Stiles raised his eyebrows. He didn’t expect for this issue to require the Queen of Hale Kingdom to come.

“Yes, son, it seems she takes this seriously. She says that she will leave her husband, King Conan, and her youngest at the Hale castle. She has sent her lord brother to treat with the Argents in the meantime.”

“If the Queen was afraid of upcoming war, then I guess she holds little love for her brother. To send him to those that would cut him down.” Stiles hazarded.

King Thomas tilted his head, a speculative look crossing his face. “I believe Lord Peter would be able to behave himself well enough to off-put any thoughts of murder. Besides,” He took a swallow of the deep, red juice. “I do not truly think that he is there to reach an agreement between them. He is there to buy time, for the Queen to see how this plan pans out.”

“And if it pans out well?” Stiles responded. “Then, what happens to the Lord Peter when he sits in the Argent castle and King Gerard learns that there is a betrothal between us, one that Queen Talia rejected from him?”

His king father shook his head. “That is not of concern of us. I’m certain, if we could see the issue that easily, then they did as well.” King Thomas looked at the letter for a moment before continuing on. “The Queen is also bringing all of her children that would be suitable matches, as well as Lord Peter’s children. We will house them for a month, in which time I hope you consider your options seriously. Afterwards, you will spend some time in Hale, to familiarize you with your betrothed’s family and customs.” It sounded like a nail in the coffin, the way that King Thomas spoke.

For a moment, Stiles was awash with a wave of unfairness. It felt awful, a horrid sensation that pricked at his eyes and threatened to squeeze out his lungs. “Father,” his voice wavered, “you promised that you wouldn’t make me do this.”

They stared at each other, Stiles with tears in his eyes and his father with a weary expression. Finally, King Thomas heaved a sigh so great that it seemed to be carrying the entire castle on it. “I also promised that I would protect the kingdom and serve it. No matter the cost.”

“But this may not even work! And then, King Gerard will have his sights set on us as well. And you _promised_. Please, you promised, you promised.” He felt like a fool, that could only repeat himself.

“At which point, we will have all of Hale Kingdom’s might backing ours.” King Thomas said evenly. “It was never my intention to break my oath to you, son. But I am King, and I must make decisions for the good of our lands. Scot stepped into your place so you would not have to face that truth yet, but he cannot shield you this time.”

A tear spilled over. “I don’t want to do this, please don’t make me.” Stiles resorted to begging.

King Thomas had had enough, or so it seemed, then. He stood taller, to his full height and said, “When you are King, there will be a great many things that you do not want to do. I am making my decision based on what I know, in order to prevent the least amount of bloodshed of my kingdom, Stiles. That is what being a King is about – it’s about making hard choices even when you don’t want to.”

He walked to where Stiles stood, hunched over himself a little. His king father placed a hand on Stiles’ chest and pushed him up. “You will meet with the Hale children. You will begin the process of choosing which you would like. You will go with them back to Hale Kingdom for a time to better decide and then _you will decide_. Or I will decide for you. That is final.” The last words were spoken with steel in them.

The king did not wait before he strode out of the room and away from Stiles. Stiles stood there still, as time passed, just attempting to put his new world into order. After a while, he realized he needed his brother’s counsel now. He took his leave of the room, casting a hateful glare around the interior before moving to leave the castle. Scot was often to be found in the small woods that cropped up next to the side of the castle, as he claimed that he enjoyed the smell of the forest more than the brick.

Scot had been bitten by a shifter on their way to the Cottleg desert over four years ago, when he was a young boy of fourteen years. He had been out in the square of the city circled within the castle walls, trying fruit that came from the Republic. Queen Melissa and his king father had worried over him for days. There was a fear that he wouldn’t survive, the fear that if he did that he wouldn’t be a wolf but rather something other, and a fear that the shifter may call Scot to him and away from them, forever.

However, less than a week after the bite, his eyes had glowed honey gold and he shifted into a shaggy-haired, brown wolf. There was the issue of how to get him to shift back. After nearly a fortnight where he ran through the woods, circling round and round the castle and its gates and frightening the people of Stilinski, he had shifted back exhausted. By then, King Thomas had gotten word from Queen Talia that she would hold Scot as her ward until he could handle his shift better. It took a full year, and during that time, his king father had expanded the woods next to the castle to ensure that Scot would have a place to roam in his wolf skin.

He took a horse out to the forest, knowing that before a mile was out, Scot would have heard his heartbeat. The horse was an older mare, with cream color skin and white hair. She was his queen mother’s before him, a wedding gift from Stiles’ grandfather. Odd that she had survived almost three times as long as Claudia.

Scot was waiting at the tree line by the time that the old mare had trotted to the forest. He wore an easy smile, his unkempt hair sticking to his forehead. He had a simple, white shirt on and a pair of tan breeches. He wore no shoes, as Scot had said that it was the fashion up in Hale. “Good morrow, brother.”

Stiles could already feel his mood lightening. “Good morrow, brother. Have you caught any game that you wish to share?”

The light dusting on Scot’s cheeks told him that yes, Scot had caught game, but no, there was nothing left to eat of it. Stiles was custom to teasing him regularly about his raw diet. “The woods have hidden almost all the small creatures from me.” He jested back. “It’s almost as if they fear me, though I would have to wonder why. But it cannot hide its beauty from me, and I have found a brook with water as sweet as honey.”

“That is a strong claim, and I’ll have to see it for myself.” Stiles dismounted from the horse, leading her over to the closest trees. Scot helped to tie her reins onto the branch. Once they were certain that the knot was secure, they started off into the greenery.

The woods were of hearty trees and small, stumpy bushes that attempted to grow underneath. It was easy to see where Scot stepped, for everywhere else the grass was as tall as Stiles’ knees. Some of the trees and bushes bore fruit, though it wasn’t grown by their gardeners to be sweet, so it often had a bitter taste that wild plants held. There was also an abundance of a small purple weed, with the flowers on it small and by the dozen for each stalk. Once, a while ago, Stiles had attempted to pluck it with the thought that it would make a good accessory for a bouquet to frequent his room. However, Scot had stopped him before he could touch it, claiming that the unassuming weed was poison. Stiles never ventured close to it again.

“What brings you out to the woods, brother?” Scot looked at him with keen eyes, probably able to smell the turmoil that lay heavy on Stiles’ shoulders.

Stiles decided to play coy, as he had little want to discuss what had him seeking out Scot. “Perhaps I was hungry, and I hoped that you could snare me a rabbit.”

“My rabbits would be nowhere as plump as the rabbits down in the kitchens.” Scot responded. They reached a part of the wood where a tree had fallen on to the path. Stiles could see claw marks from where Scot had propelled himself off of it. His brother jumped up onto the log, reaching down to pluck Stiles up and over it as if he weighed less than a bag of wheat. It used to embarrass Stiles to be manhandled so, but now he found it comforting, this strength of his brother.

“Perhaps I craved fresh air.” Stiles deflected again, after righting himself on the other side of the log.

“We both know that you prefer the gardens over my wild forest.” Off in the distance, Stiles could hear the babbling of the creek. The air took on a cool quality, one that was often only found around fast-moving water.

“The gardens are made to smell sweet, with flowers grown for their beauty and scent. Why wouldn’t I prefer that over deer shit?”

“Deer shit smells natural.” Scot defended, before backtracking when he realized what he just implied. “Besides, anyway, it’s not just that. The scents blend together to create nature. The smell of the water and trees, the birds and the bugs, it all makes something that is… comforting.” He tilted his head up to catch the scent on the wind better.

Stiles was dubious. “Be that as it may for you, for someone with my level of senses, it smells like deer.”

Scot snorted, thankfully dropping the topic as they grew close to the stream. Stiles had always been able to talk circles around his brother and it was one talent that had always came in handy. Scot was astute to Stiles’ mood before he was bitten, and that attention only heightened afterwards.

The stream was a tiny one, the water fast moving but shallow. There were rocks at the bottom of it, light in color that were smooth from the constant movement of water. Small fish, no bigger than Stiles’ pinky, kept with the flow in tiny schools. Stiles would be able to step over it, perhaps, if he was allowed a running start.

When they reached it, Scot crouched down to it and cupped water in his hands to spill into his mouth. It drippled down his front and wet his shirt. He sat down on the muddy ground, right there on the embankment, and gestured for Stiles to come taste the water. Stiles rolled his eyes at Scot’s crass way of treating his clothes. Doubtless, when the laundry went to the wash maids, they would all cluck and mutter about the mud that cakes on everything Scot wears.

He had a sneaking suspicion it was why the tailors always gave his brother coarse materials, because they knew that it didn’t matter if he was dressed in rough cotton or the smoothest silk, as he would dirty it all the same.

Stiles crouched near the brook to drink some of the water. When he dipped his hands into the stream, it was so cold that he could feel it in his finger bones. He stuck his head out far to make sure that he didn’t spill any on the top he wore. The water was somewhat sweet, fresher than any of the stagnant water that he drinks from the wells in the castle.

“It’s good,” Stiles admitted. “I have half a mind to bring a skin back here to take some to the castle with me.”

“By the time you got back inside, the magic of the brook would be gone. It tastes as good as it does because of where it is.” Stiles looked around at his words. The light filtered down to the forest floor with a green tint. The brook warbled next to him and the wind gently touched his cheeks. He guessed the ambiance may have something to do with how good it tasted, but it probably was just as much how quick the water moved.

He sighed deeply, shaking the water off his hands and standing up. Scot looked up at him. “Father wants me to marry one of the Hales.” Stiles had said it. He had ripped the wrappings off the wound quick, the words funny in his mouth.

Scot looked at him blankly for a moment before realization washed over his features. Stiles could see the emotions plain on his face – first horror for Stiles, then excitement, then chagrin, then worry. He settled on worry. “How are you faring?”

Stiles shrugged. He felt aimless, upset at his king father but also understanding of why he was doing what he was doing. The time away from the castle had lessened his anger some. “They’re at least letting me pick who I’ll marry. Though Father assured me that Queen Talia had decided on that, I can’t help but feel as if it was his way of attempting to keep his promise.”

“I’m sure that he wanted to.” Scot hedged. “Why does she want you to marry one of her children?”

“King Gerard is making waves over on her border, and I think she hopes the betrothal of one of hers to a crown prince will give him pause. That he’ll reign in his men in reminder that our kingdom holds alliances with them both.” Stiles explained.

“And our alliance to him is because of me and Allison.” Scot guessed. “What happens if he doesn’t call his men back?”

“I’m not sure.” Stiles said, but even he could feel the flip of his heart. Scot frowned at him for lying.

“I’ve loved Princess Allison for so long,” He started. “Just because the other kingdoms are warring doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t be allowed to keep her.”

“It also doesn’t mean that I should have to marry someone I don’t love.” Stiles reminded him. Scot and Princess Allison had been a happy accident, for when King Gerard declared that they would want a secondary marriage – his king father and late queen mother notwithstanding – to prove the alliance of the Stilinski Kingdom to the Martin Kingdom was still strong. Despite the recent shift of the ruling family.

“I know.” Scot took several deep breaths. Stiles could read him easily, the taut shoulders and grim mouth. He was worried for himself and for his princess. It was understandable, if not somewhat smarting. “I can tell you from experience though that most of them are excellent people.”

Stiles looked at him in such a way that had Scot hurrying to continue. “I mean that really. When I stayed with them for those two years, none of them treated me less-than, or called me half-prince or anything like that.”

“Maybe that’s because you _aren’t_ a half-,”

Scot continued on. “Regardless, they ate with me. They ran under their Mother Moon with me and shared their den during the Full Moon Festival. All they had to do was teach me how to commune with my wolf, but they treated me like pack. They’re good, I swear it.”

It did warm Stiles’ heart to know that the person he would spend the rest of his life with was kind to a stranger. “I am glad that they come with your recommendation. When one of them comes into my bed covered in mud, I’ll know it was true.” The laughter that followed helped to lighten the mood in the woods.

\--

Scot had decided to stay behind when Stiles deemed it was time to head back to the castle. He said that he was hoping to skip out on the supper, as he wasn’t sure if Stiles was supposed to tell him about his betrothal plans.

As Stiles rode towards the Stilinski castle, he tried to view it as the Hale princes and princesses would view it. It was large, all made with stone from the sea. Some of the stones had shells or fossils encased in it, and those glinted prettily when the sun was high. It had one true tower, in the dead middle of the castle. It was named the Kings Tower. There were four smaller towers that were along the sides of the castle. They had wires that connected them to the middle tower, too thin to walk on but made of strong metal.

When there was a celebration or mourning period for the kingdom, men would climb the highest tower and attach cloth to the wires. It would whiz down to be caught through windows on the smaller towers, making the entire castle below be shadowed by the fabric. When they celebrated Stiles’ birth, they cloaked the castle in bright red fabric for a month. Afterwards, they cut it down and fashioned clothes out of it, sewn with the luck of a born crown prince.

Stiles knew that when Queen Talia and her children arrived, the cloth that would be flowing would be a deep green. While there were walls that encased all four of the small towers, two of the towers faced the city. They began the wall that circled around the city, a large, compact place full of homes and markets and whorehouses. They had been named City Watch, for the left, and Palace Watch, for the right.

Within the castle walls, behind the tallest tower was a small garden. It was held between the other two of the smaller towers, and at the very back of it, was a door that opened up to Scot’s small forest. The tower to the left was called the Forest Watch, and the right one was called the Garden Watch.

He drew closer to the back door, able to see the sun shine on the metal of his king father’s knights. When the door opened, he would be within the walls of the garden. There were high bushes that were trimmed to look like walls, each bush bloomed a type of flower. Behind them were actual stone walls, that kept form when winter decayed the flowers. Some were small flowers that grouped in bushels and had such a faint scent. Others were heavy and huge, deep colors and a scent you could smell from the small towers.

There were vineyards on either side of the garden, filling up two sides seen from the tallest tower. Despite how the gardeners attempted to prune it back, the vines and fruit spilled towards the edges of the garden and the front of the castle. The front had a walk way of stone, large enough to allow a carriage through and up to the steps of the castle.

Scot and he both enjoyed keeping their rooms in the small tower close to the east. Stiles could look out his windows and see the maze of the garden, winding along the pebble stone path that was laid to make it look even more pleasing. He could spy different lords and ladies sitting upon the benches near the fountain in the middle, could see how clear the water spouted from the top of the fountain and showered down. Scot was able to see and smell his forest and he even claimed that he could hear heartbeats of the game within it if he tried again. Stiles tried not to let his doubt grow.

His king father preferred the highest tower, as it was best able to look out upon the city. The highest tower was the only one that had a larger set of lower levels, with a large second floor for guests to stay, and an even larger first floor for the Great Hall, the servants’ chambers, the kitchens, and the throne room. King Thomas’ rooms were near the top, with two of the walls almost being completely windows and half-walls to allow him to look in to his eating room from his bed. The breeze is the only part of the rooms that made Stiles envious.

As he trotted through the garden, he looked at the towers with new eyes. They were beautiful, he always knew that, with light stone and foliage creeping up the walls. The air was agreeable most of the year, the plants yielded heavy crops and the sea was only two days ride away. Stiles felt a queer and unsettling feeling in his stomach, hoping that at least one of the Hales found the castle as enjoyable as he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! As you can probably tell from the (loose guess) number of chapters, this is going to be a big piece from me. I've been working on it for about seven months now, and have finally got the nerve to post it. I'm still in the process of writing and editing and all, but I have most of it down. 
> 
> I wanted to put the first two chapters together to explain: there is going to be four main POVs, all canon characters, with the prologue having an OC specifically to introduce the main plot. (Kind of like GOT) 
> 
> I plan on posting a new chapter every five days, so plan on the next one being up on 2/20.


	3. Derrik

Joren’s scent and rabbit heartbeat are what woke him. Derrik and his family had been traveling for two weeks now, and that was the first night that he had decided he’d rather sleep alone. He loved the pack piles and felt at peace surrounded by them, but Cora had decided to show her desire to not be going by not bathing. Malia had joined in, mostly as an excuse to not have to bathe.

His tent was small, a deep grey that allowed him to sleep past the sun rising. It had his bed and a makeshift table if he wanted to eat there. There was also his trunk, that carried all of his fancy clothes and pretty chains. And his squire, Joren Baker.

Derrik cracked his eyes open to see the boy standing next to his bed, looking scared out of his wits. Derrik snorted, shoving himself up by one arm. “How long had you been working up the courage to wake me?”

To his credit, he had the decency to look sheepish. Derrik would say that his scent curdled in embarrassment, but it always smelled slightly soured. It was due to his anxiety. In the two-month time that Joren had been his squire, he still hadn’t managed to master not being fearful of the wolf. “The Queen asked me to wake you, Prince Derrik.” He stammered out.

It was no small wonder why he was so frazzled already. He seemed ill at ease around the entire royal family, though more comfortable around Isaac and Derrik’s brother, Conan. However, the way that his mother frightened the boy was truly a sight to behold. She had always treated him kindly, and spoke to him softly, but—as she had told Derrik many times before—some humans were predisposed to be skittish around wolves. Especially Alphas.

“Is that all she had to say?” Derrik asked.

“No, my prince.” Derrik grimaced. He understood the formality, but he hated the term. The wolves rarely used such formalities around each other. In court, even if a common wolf came up and spoke to the Queen, he would call her “Alpha” in their tongue and her children “pups.” He disagreed that he was still a pup, but the closeness and familiarity of the term felt better than the formal “prince”. Perhaps it was his dislike of the human tongue. “She said—” Joren’s teeth clicked with how hard he had closed his mouth. He appeared to be warring between his duty to respond to Derrik, and his desire to not say whatever his mother had said.

Part of him wished that he could snap at the boy, tell him to be out with it. Derrik had learned quickly that that was a futile path. Joren would start to cry and say, “Forgive me, please, my prince.” He acted as if Derrik would strike him, as if Derrik was angry at him. It was frustrating to no end that the human boy couldn’t smell the difference in his anger and his annoyance.

Derrik sighed internally. He loosened his shoulders and attempted to make his face as calm as possible. “Yes?”

Joren wouldn’t look at him. “She said that if you didn’t hurry up, you wouldn’t get any food and that she’d tell the servants to roll you up in your tent.” Derrik knew a jest from his mother when he saw one, but Joren didn’t. He fidgeted next to the foot of the bed, eyes continuing to cast down to the trunk.

“I could wear my tent for a day.” Derrik mused. Joren’s heartbeat spiked, no doubt wondering how the rest of the pack would respond when they found out he couldn’t get Derrik up. He almost wanted to laugh. “But I think I’ll want to see my family. Go ahead and set out some clothes for me, I’ll see if my mother meant what she said.”

“Yes, my prince.” Joren aborted a bow halfway, darting towards the chest. Derek stood up from his bed, a large roll of cotton that had been stitched into some leather and then covered in cotton again. He wore a pair of breeches that were tied loosely around his hips.

When Joren had first come to them, or well, back to them, he had been shocked at how comfortable the Hales were with semi-nudity. Derrik didn’t tell him that it extended to full nudity, for the boy would turn that sickly green color. He had to admire his resolution to squire and become a knight, despite his fear of well, most things royal. He shied away from the lords and ladies of the court and even seemed hesitant to mingle with the other squires. Derrik had pried why out of him, and Joren felt like he shouldn’t be talking to the sons of lords.

Derrik wasn’t even sure why he had stepped forward that day in court, when Joren had come to beg his mother for a chance to squire. He had a tearful story about how he wanted to learn to fight, so that he may protect people, like the people of his village. Queen Talia had let him speak his peace, though there wasn’t anything she could do to bring the dead back.

Joren had tears in his eyes, and his cheeks were splotched from color. A few of the soldiers they had sent with him were standing next to the boy. Derrik remembered thinking that he was tiny, even for a human. The boy was nervous. He looked around the court but wouldn’t look at the Queen. “I know this is not a request for Queen Talia, but please allow me this. I don’t know what else to do.” He sounded so broken and Talia had acquiesced.

“I may not be a lord’s son, but I work well. I’m quick, and I’ll do whatever is asked for me. I beg for a chance to squire. Please,” What courage he had left him, and he hunched in on himself. Derrik watched the courts, watched the knights who stood farther in the wood look away. Watched how the women made little whines of pity in their throats and saw the shifty eyes of the lords in attendance.

No one meant to take him.

Derrik was stepping forward before he had a thought in his mind. He just knew how his heart clenched at the boy’s plea. The rest of the wolves’ eyes snapped over to him. His mother turned in her chair to see what he may want, what he meant to say.

“I’ll take him.” And while his mother gave him a secret smile, and he could feel the glee coming from Conan, the boy’s scent had turned. He thought that Joren hadn’t expected for anyone to take him, and that his words were something of a show at first. However, he quickly learned that his fear was Derrik-specific. It was rough the first month, in the castle where the boy seemed afraid that if he slept that Derrik would cut him groin to throat. He spent many nights seeking counsel from his mother and sometimes, his father. She told Derrik to be patient, the boy was in mourning. His father told him to attempt smiling, for his demeanor was what frightened the boy.

He did both, with patience not whittling away at Joren’s panic and the smiling made it worse. Nowadays, Derrik acted as he often did, and hoped that the consistency made Joren more complacent. Once he was out of his tent, he swallowed in the country air. He could hear the omegas running around, packing away things for the day. The horses whickered from where they were tied, and men were eating in little circles. Derrik stretched his senses as far as they could go, and it seemed as if the camp was thrumming with happy energy.

The earth was damp beneath his feet, still cool from the night before. He could feel the slight vibrations that came from the movement around him. They had left the snow behind two days before and Erica had been complaining ever since. They would be in the Stilinski kingdom in a day or less, and at the castle by the end of the week.

Other wolves noticed him coming and gave him a wide berth. It had been that way since Paige had passed, and it wasn’t like he could blame them. He went near feral at that point. His mother hadn’t given up on though, hadn’t sent him to the Cottleg desert, and the rest of the court had to deal with him.

Most didn’t speak to him anymore. Derrik supposed he would mind if he had wanted to speak to them.

He found his mother in her tents, through the scent that permeated the fabric. She had always insisted on decreasing her finery. She kept a grey tent, just like her soldiers and servants. The only difference is that she got her own. The Queen was sitting at her makeshift table with a robe around her. Her handmaids hurried around her, one brushing her hair and the other two picking clothes out of one of her trunks. She looked up when Derrik came in.

“Derrik.” She smiled at him. “Come eat some with me.” On the table was a platter of sliced fruit and a two bowls of porridge. A drizzle of honey sat on top of it, and a jug of water sat next to the fruit platter.

Derrik slid onto the small pallet across from his mother. He legs were too long to enjoy the low sitting yet folded them to be bearable for a few minutes. “How did you know I was coming to eat with you?” The handmaid that was brushing the Queen’s hair flinched. Derrik didn’t need to scent her to know that she was human, for they were the only ones who got nervous when wolves spoke to each other in their tongue.

“A mother always knows.” Talia intoned. It was one of her favorite sayings for when she knew something that she had no ability to, such as when Cora put chickens in Laura’s room. Or when Derrik had a handmaid stitch a small bag of ink into the back of his cousin Erica’s skirt, which exploded the first time she had sat down. Or when Conan had attempted to sneak a whore into the castle to wake Derrik.

“Or you put too much faith in Joren.” Derek responded. He plucked a slice of apricot off the plate and shoved it into his mouth. He loved almost all food that tasted sweet but couldn’t handle the amount of sugar that their cooks put into pastries. So, fruits were a good compromise between the kitchen and the prince.

Talia hummed, stirring her porridge. “I have placed just as much faith in him as you have.” Derrik held his mother dear, but she had a way of conversing to make her words like water. They were smooth and pretty, but impossible to grasp.

She ate a few spoonfuls while Derrik mulled over how to reply. He was content, he realized, to eat the meal in silence. “Derrik,” Talia started when she realized that he meant to stay quiet, “I want you to know that I wouldn’t be upset if you decided to go home.”

Derrik quashed his initial response, which was to snarl at her to butt out. It wouldn’t help anything for him to get angry at her for caring about him. And it would do nothing but invite more gossip about his character, how he was aloof and wild. Talia smiled at him like she knew what he was thinking. “Thank you, Mother.” Derrik began. “But I want to come. I feel responsible, at least partially, for what is happening to our people. If I can help by doing this…”

He pushed at his porridge aimlessly. Derrik no longer felt like eating, felt small and stupid when he thought on the reason for their visit. The Argents were burning their southeast villages, killing their men and acting ignorant about it. No one who stayed in the villages had survived an attack, and when they placed men at one village, a different one, twenty miles north, would be attacked.

While it was admirable that the Queen was opting for a nonviolent route, there were whispers everywhere of war. Lady Walsh had taken her two boys, one a squire and the other a page, back up to the Egbon castle. She had been a widow for ten years, infertile for seven, and only had two young human sons. The moment war reached her ears, she had snatched them up and carried them to the farthest northlands.

Queen Talia placed her hands under her son’s chin, to tilt up Derrik’s face. “It’s not your fault. You and Kate… you weren’t a good match.” He could tell there were some choice things she had wanted to say but held back. “You’re not to blame because Gerard is too blind to see that. And no one will blame you if you aren’t ready to try again.”

Derrik shook his head. “This isn’t about trying for love again. This is about politics, about making sure that we can prevent more loss of life.” It was what he repeated to himself when he got tight-chested about the idea of sharing his life with the Stilinski prince. Of sinking his teeth in him and fostering a mating bond between them.

His mother smiled at him. “Often, those two things aren’t so far away from each other. At least for this family.” The handmaid who had been methodically working through the Queen’s hair stood back. Derrik wondered if his mother chose her because she had such a nondescript scent. “Have you decided what courting gift you’re going to offer him?”

Before he had to respond that no, he really hadn’t, Deaton stepped in. Deaton was a new addition to his mother’s counsel. He came from the Republic and seemed to know even more than the wolves. Some of the omegas whispered that he had magic, defensive and powerful magic attached to a tree, found in a forest in the Republic. Derrik didn’t put much stock into it, because why would he leave the tree if it was his power source? Someone may come by and fell it.

Talia gave her full attention to the man. “Yes, Deaton?”

He smiled at her, a small one that seemed to be as placid as it was false. He made all the hair on Derrik stand up. “Forgive me for the intrusion, my Grace. I was informed by the omegas that it is time to be packing up the tents. If we are to keep on schedule, that is.” Deaton inclined his head.

“Oh, I guess Derrik and I will have to finish our conversation another time. I’m sure Joren is beside himself for not managing to dress you before the tent goes down.” His mother stood and threw off her robe. The handmaids began to help her into her dress. It was hickory in color, with a thin line of garnet sewn in near the neck and wrists. Deaton averted his eyes, a slight smell of embarrassment coming from him. It was queer, as he usually gave off no scent at all.

The Queen had swept in new fashion, while her daughter Laura clung to the old, of a thicker dress that did not need to have underdressing to be considered modest. It was made of pressed wool, that was warm enough for the Hale castle, while still cutting down the time it took to dress. After her breasts had been covered, Deaton looked back to the room.

“Actually, I may have run into someone on the way over.” Deaton said. He stepped to the side, lifting the tent flap to show Joren standing there. Joren was clutching at Derrik’s clothes, some snot running down over his lip. There were also a few omegas behind him, peering into the tent. The rest of the camp appeared to be in the last stages of breaking down.

Derrik rubbed his cheek against his mother’s as he passed her, a small sound escaping his lips. Anyone of the court would willingly scent mark and be scent marked by his mother, a cacophony of scents when she allowed it. But no one, save for his family, wanted to scent mark Derrik. Plenty of lords and ladies had the excuse that they wanted to scent only within their pack, but others would rather not tell him the reasons.

He walked outside to where Joren had a steady stream of, “I’m sorry, my prince, forgive me, I tried to find you,” under his breath. Joren stuck out his clothes when Derek got close, and Derrik grabbed at his shirt. He had picked one that was pecan in color out for Derrik, which wasn’t the best for his skin tone, but it wasn’t as if he was meeting the Stilinski prince tonight.

After he put on the shirt, he dropped his pants right there. Joren made a shrill noise in the back of his mouth. Derrik paid it no mind, righting the pants on himself. He handed off his sleeping pants, trusting that the squire would be able to correctly locate his belongings and place it with them.

Talia came out after him, her dress hem already getting muddied from the damp ground. She was offered a horse on their walk back to the main road, but she shook her head. Wolves enjoyed walking and running, and that didn’t change just because she was queen. Derrik walked side by side with her to the main road, a small stretch that had no name as it was too close to either kingdom for the other to get to choose its name.

When they broke the tree line, Derrik noticed how the rest of the pack was already there. Cora and Erica were over on the other side of the road, darting in between the trees. He bet if he listened, he would be able to hear Malia’s heartbeat somewhere further in the wood. Isaac and Boyd were talking to Laura, who was sat atop a horse at their mother’s insistence. She was five months pregnant, swollen enough that the healers swore up and down that she was with twins. Her husband, Ian, sat on a horse next to her. Conan was on a mare behind the both of them, leaning over it to hear what Isaac was saying.

Isaac was talking about how he woke up on the lake near where they had camped. Erica and Malia had taken his cot and floated him on it. Conan was laughing loudly, clutching at his horse to keep from falling. Isaac was irritated, but there was a trace of fondness towards his two sisters. It was good he had a forgiving nature, he said, or else one day he might run away due to their cruel pranks.

Erica called out from where she was dodging Cora, saying that if he truly minded then he would have complained to their father more growing up. Laura leaned around on her seat, much to Talia’s dismay, and grinned at Derrik. He did go running to their mother anytime Laura had played a prank on him. She once hid all his clothes under the snow around the castle, and Derrik had run to Talia in the middle of court, stark naked and bawling.

Laura and Ian hadn’t had to come, but their mother could deny her daughter nothing currently. It was as if Laura was made of solid gold. Every time Talia saw her, she would make sweet cooing noises and press her face against Laura’s stomach.

The wagons, which they had left on the side of the road while they had set up camp, were being loaded. Derrik’s mother paid them no mind, calling for her pack to walk ahead, so that they may spend some time together.

Erica and Cora darted through the forest, staying close enough for Derrik to hear their heartbeats. Both of them were wearing dresses, but he wondered how long they would stay on. It was of Talia’s fashion, which were much more freeing for movement, but still were dresses. They both had elder handmaids, crones that would scold at them about being modest. Derrik knew that they were fighting a losing battle. Malia, who was either dead or too far out for him to hear, was most likely in her coyote skin or at the very least, naked. Isaac, Boyd and Erica didn’t seem concerned about their sister, so he told himself it was nothing to worry about.

His mother walked next to Laura’s horse, holding it by the reins. The animals that were brought to the Hale castle stables were raised with wolf handlers, so they wouldn’t spook around the royal family. They were talking about how Laura would like the cradle to look, and what colors should the tapestries they hang be, and what about the bedding. Derrik tuned them out after a moment, excited for his sister, but not that excited.

Ian was content to do the same, feigned agreeing and excitement at appropriate times. Derrik knew that Laura could smell that his words weren’t genuine, but he didn’t believe that she actually cared about that. Looking between the two, he was struck again by how pleased he was that they were a good match. They didn’t have that kind of die-for-the-other love that their parents did, but they smelled comfortable around each other. They made each other smile and Laura had confided in him once, “He’s a good friend. I’m so glad we can be friends.”

From behind Derrik, Conan called out. “Remind me again, dearest mother, why we chose to take the road instead of the sea?” He was the only human that Derrik knew of that could speak the wolf tongue near perfect.

“The waves could make Laura sick.” Talia responded, frowning at her son. “Besides, the fresh air will do you good.”

Cora came speeding out from the woods. She had a scowl on her face; she smelled of mint and citrus, but also of anger. Derrik wondered which charade she’d go through today. “Laura didn’t even have to come, so I don’t get why we have to go her way.” So, she had decided today was a petulant day.

Cora was the youngest of all the girls in the family. She was only twelve, and had no interests in boys, princes or no. Talia had insisted that she come, “just-in-case” that was the way that the prince’s interests lie. It made Derrik somewhat nauseous, but he understood. He hadn’t seen the Stilinski prince since the wedding, and only had what Prince Scot had said about him to go off of.

And Prince Scot was something of an idealist, so he held little to no value to his words. He was grateful that they had left little Thomas home. He was named after King Thomas, but that didn’t mean that he would be a good fit within their family. Talia hadn’t “just-in-case”d her seven-year old.

“We go Laura’s way because she’s pregnant.” Talia explained.

“Well, I wish I was pregnant, so I didn’t have to go on this stupid trip!” Cora exclaimed, turning red when she realized what she had said. There was a pause where everyone just looked at her. Cora’s scent swelled with embarrassment, and she snarled before punching the closest person to her. It ended up being Boyd, who just absorbed the blow. She ran back into the woods before they could say anything.

Boyd look back at the rest of the family, a rare, small smile playing at his lips. Conan was the first to laugh, as he usually was. Even Derrik managed a smile. Cora had been cycling between acting petulant, stonewalling, and then spending the whole day just screaming, since they had left. She had never left their woods, didn’t even go to Laura’s wedding or to visit their cousins at Moonpearl. Talia had yet to break and send her back, so it was looking like she would truly be meeting the Stilinski prince.

“So, has anyone else decided what to offer Prince Stiles?” Conan asked when they had quieted.

“I’ve brought him a book from our libraries about the journeys to the vast northern wastes.” Isaac offered. “I thought it was an enjoyable read, and Scot said that he liked books, but actual books.”

“What does he mean, actual books?” Conan responded.

Isaac shrugged. “Apparently one of their libraries is full of books that hold nothing at all.”

Derrik thought that sounded like an insipid king who wished to give the appearance of intelligence. He hoped that it wasn’t King Thomas who placed them there. How embarrassing would it be to think about the current king as insipid.

Malia came slinking out of the woods, naked and covered in blood. She smelled of deer, and Derrik knew if he followed her scent, he’d find a half-eating carcass. Talia frowned at her when she wandered up to Boyd.

“You’ll be putting on clothes before we reach Vrost, young lady. I hear Lady Summerlyn has a delicate constitution, and she has been gracious to host us tonight.” Derrik’s mother said.

“I wouldn’t mind sleeping outside for the eighth night. The air down here is warm.” Malia responded, holding her hands up when Talia pressed her lips together. “But I’ll put something on, swear it. I just came out because I heard we were talking about courting offers.”

“What did you bring?” Boyd asked.

Malia scoffed. “I didn’t bring anything, brother.”

“But you have to offer something! Or else Mother Moon won’t smile on the mating.” Isaac started biting at his lip. “You have to give something to him, because he might be giving you his whole life.”

“I’m not not giving him something, Isaac. I’m going to bring down the biggest game I can find around the castle and offer that to him.”

“You do realize that humans can’t eat raw meat, right?” Laura turned somewhat in her saddle to listen to Ian talk. He had chosen to stay human when they were mated, as was his right.

Conan made a sound of agreement. “Well, I’ve brought him a crown.”

Erica and Cora came out from the woods as the conversation continued. “You can’t bring the prince a crown, stupid.” Cora said. “He’s already going to be king.”

“It’s not to make him king.” Conan shot back. “It’s to let him be king with a beautiful crown. I had it fashioned to look like antlers all the way round, made of silver and the points dipped in gold.” In truth, Derrik had drawn it for Conan one night on the older brother’s ramblings of how he would like it to look.

“It’s certainly a rich gift.” Talia managed. Derrik knew how she felt about lavish items, how unnecessary she found them. He had a suspicion that she allowed Conan all the fineries she did because of him being the only human born in a wolf family.

“It’s useless.” Erica declared. “I’ve brought him a dagger, sharper and thinner than anything any man here’s got on him. The hilt’s made up of Moonpearl stone, sanded to be smoother than silk.” She puffed her chest out, preening at her offering. Derrik knew that her, Conan, and Isaac had made a wager of whose gift he would keep.

“What did you bring, Boyd?” Laura asked the quiet wolf. She had decided, when Uncle Peter had brought him back from the Republic as a baby, that she would do everything in her power to include him. She had sworn it next to his crib, in front of her parents and Uncle Peter.

Boyd blinked at her, “I didn’t realize that I should. I thought that the prince would be looking at the actual Hale children.” And that was the reason why she did it. It was easy to see that he was adopted into Uncle Peter’s family. His skin was the color of night, and he carried not even one Hale trait on his face. It had not mattered to any of the pack, as it had not mattered that Conan was human or Malia was born out of wedlock.

“Well, Prince Scot is adopted by the king.” Derrik spoke up. “I don’t think those things matter much to them.”

“Well, then I’ll have to think on it.”

“And you, Derrik?” Talia asked, most likely as a way to finish their earlier conversation. Derrik ground his teeth for a moment, knowing he couldn’t hide his annoyed scent from her. Talia said nothing on it, as was the polite custom.

In truth, Derrik had been wracking his mind for what to offer the Stilinski prince. Everything he thought of was either too intimate, or too detached. He thought that he might stitch him something, a token from Derrik. But that would be drenched in his scent, and anywhere the prince went, wolves would know. He also thought of taking him to the market and allowing him to buy something for himself. That would allow the prince to get something he wished for, but there would be nothing of Derrik in it.

He remembered what he had gotten Paige for his courting offer. Derrik had made her a delicate, lace necklace. It was the lightest shade of the sky, and Derrik had dyed it himself, and it was a line of snowflakes. Each crystalline structure on the necklace had been unique. When she wore it, she carried his scent around her neck. Even though she had been human, she had grown up in the Hale kingdom and knew the connotations behind that.

“Boyd and I are in the same boat.” Derrik responded. His moods had taken a sharp turn and he noticed how his pack responded. Talia winced, as if she had mis-stepped, and Isaac began to whine low in his throat. He was the most prone to being affected by such shifts.

Conan had to use his human senses, but he noticed how his packmates responded. He looked at Derrik, confused and sad. For a moment, Derrik was blindingly mad. It felt as if he always soured the mood, shut down the conversation or ended the enjoyment. He didn’t want the pity that pervaded the air.

“Well I know what I’m bringing him.” Cora said, somewhat wobbly. She was attempting to redirect the mood, for which Derrik was pathetically grateful. “A big old mud pie to throw in his face. Ha!”

“Cora!” Talia admonished while the rest of the pack began to howl with laughter. Cora had that grin on her face, like the dog who had managed to eat all the rabbit before the cook chased it out, like she was enjoying the spectacle.

Isaac knocked shoulders with him while the rest hooted, his eyes full of questions. Derrik smiled back at him. _See, it’s all good_. He thought, _Please don’t ask me about it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update on 2/24


	4. Lydia

Ser Whittemore was late, which was… unlike him. Lydia waited for him in the tiny home they had secured in Desert’s Edge, which as the name suggested, was right next to the Cottleg desert. It was made of clay, to keep the inside cool, and held only two rooms. The kitchen and eating room were one, and it was where Ser Whittemore slept as well. Lydia took the other room as her own, storing what little possessions they hadn’t sold.

She spent the time he was gone mostly in the house and in the small garden on its side. The garden held bell peppers, which she ate like apples, and watermelon. Lydia collected the patches of wild sorghum that grew around the house. She would spend most of the day storing it. When times got hard, and their plants yielded no crops, they could eat it as porridge or make bread with sorghum.

There were also the two cattle in a fenced in area, far enough away so Lydia would not have to smell their shit. Ser Whittemore was the one who usually handled them, loathe as he was to leave Lydia with any work, but he had been gone for two weeks. Her hands had cracked and calloused from carrying a water pail to water them twice a day, and her arms were growing stronger from carrying sorghum and millet to the feeding troughs. It was mainly millet, as she had a distaste towards the grain.

Lydia had sent Ser Whittemore away to find a vagrant Alpha. The tenth year of her family being slaughtered and her going into exile had recently come to pass. Ser Whittemore was the only one who had stuck with her through the years, and it was him who saved her life countless times.

She remembered the day well, and sometimes it felt as if the only thing that kept her going was to see Lord Gerard Argent put into the ground. Her king father had agreed to host Allison Argent at the castle, two years previous. Lydia had tendrils of attachment and affection to the younger girl, showing Allison her secret places and sharing her toys.

Until her lord grandfather came.

Chris Argent came first, of course. He found them in the Great Hall, a bit of blood seeping down the side of his face. Lydia thought that it was odd, if he was injured then why was he standing here instead of going to a healer. Then he handed her a knife, whispering for her and Allison to hide. It was a small dagger, light even in her child hands. It was unassuming iron with a plain, brown leather hilt.

Lydia’s insides had turned liquid, and she pulled Allison to the window. She had been confused, asking why they couldn’t stay with her father. “It’s a game,” Lydia replied tightly. If she listened closely, she could hear the sound of swords clashing. She had heard it many times before, but this time it sounded malicious. “We’re to hide.”

Allison had bobbed her head up and down, had stopped pulling at Lydia. She took her out the window, up the ledge that you had to press your back against and shimmy along, all the way up to a spare closet. On the way up, she heard Chris Argent yelling at men through the window. _He’s protecting me_ , she thought. _But who is attacking?_ Lydia had hidden in the closet then, with Allison in front of her.

When she heard footsteps and shouting, she peeked from the closet. She saw her father’s men… and Argent men. They seemed to be attacking each other and her father’s men were yelling, “Stop in the name of the King!” Lydia shut the door and she clutched at the dagger and placed it up to Allison’s throat. “What are you doing?” Allison had cried, high and panicked.

“Be quiet,” Lydia hissed. Chris Argent would have never placed the weapon in her hand if he thought this was how she meant to use it.

Even today, she was curious at how he had planned for a little girl to use a knife against trained men.

Several minutes of clashing metal passed, but it felt like an eternity. She was certain she had stood there for a whole night, one hand on little Allison’s arm and the other on the blade at her throat.

Eventually it quieted, but she couldn’t let go of Allison. Lydia didn’t know who had won yet, didn’t know who had survived. Then the door had swung open, sunlight streaming in through the opposite wall’s window. She had flinched, cutting a thin line across Allison’s collarbone.

“Ow!” the little girl complained, trying to jerk away.

Lydia allowed her to, when she recognized who stood before them. It was her father’s youngest knight. A kanima who was just shy of nineteen. He looked wild, with blood matted in his hair and several torso wounds stitching themselves up. “Princess Lydia, you must come with me at once.”

And she trusted him. She trusted him because her father trusted him, and that was enough for her to place her hand in his and let him guide her. Lydia starkly remembered the bodies that littered the hallway. Their metal armor shone with the sunlight, casting bright beams along the stone walls and amplifying the light of the hallway.

She stopped at her father’s door. It was open, which wasn’t unusual on a normal day, but today was not a normal day. Ser Whittemore looked down at her, ready to urge her on again until he saw what she was staring at.

Her father had kept a table in his eating rooms, which were just inside his doorway. The table was a round table, made of light oak and had an ongoing carving along the rim. It was big enough for her, and her mother, and her two brothers. King Josiah was a genial man, who wanted anyone to feel able to sit at his table with him. And there he sat at that table; upper body slouched across the table. The light oak was stained a deep crimson, from the arrow that stuck out from his back. “It’s not safe,” Ser Whittemore said. “The archer could still be outside.”

“Do you smell him?” Lydia had asked, never once looking away from her father’s corpse. “Do you hear him?”

“No, my princess.” Ser Whittemore admitted. She crept forward, stepping carefully between the bodies on the floor. There were Martin men lying here with the Argent’s, Ser Colsin, Ser Lewl, and Ser Merice. On the ground lay her father’s crown. It was beautiful, crafted with royal blue cloth and trapped with a gold encasing. There was a peak at the top of the center, where a pure sapphire sat. Lydia picked it up, the gold stained from the blood.

And then they had fled.

Ser Whittemore had his senses about him. He paid a port man handsomely to sail them across to the Republic, and then stowed them away on a merchant ship. Once in the Republic, he convinced Lydia to sell away the crown. They stayed one more night, but bought a room for a month, before stowing away again.

They had found themselves in Desert’s Edge, where shifters came to forget their past lives. So it seems that her past life forgot about her. Or perhaps, Gerard Argent had killed the wrong redhead, and now thought her a ghost.

Either way, she had had over eight years to sit and think, to plan. She had no armies, no great allies anymore. The people at market didn’t even recognize her as a Martin, though if they had ever seen or heard of one was debatable. Lydia had need of a strong force, a troop to rally behind her.

She had sent Ser Whittemore out to find that for her, and he was to have returned within the last two days should he have found nothing. The food supply of salted meat and figs ran low, as did their water. Lydia didn’t have the strength to walk all the way into the village and carry it all back, but it was looking like she may be faced with no choice in the matter.

There was also the concern of the men who eyed her as she walked, like she was meat. Ser Whittemore had always accompanied her, attempted to shield her from their gaze, but she saw. Lydia still had the knife Chris Argent gifted her. It was chipped somewhat along the blade, and the leather was fraying, but it still could defend her.

_What could a little girl with a knife do up against trained men?_

Lydia decided to wait for the market for one more day. If tomorrow, he hadn’t come back, she would go into the village early and collect their needs one trip at a time. It made her throat tight, the idea that something may have happened to him and now she was truly alone, but there was nothing to be done for it. She knew nothing of the Cottleg desert, had no way of deciphering where he went. Ser Whittemore had assured her that he would be able to find what she sought, but as evening came, Lydia began to think that perhaps that was lie.

She had bathed and fitted herself with nightwear when their door swung open. So certain was she that Ser Whittemore had been lost, she snatched up her knife. It was always on her desk, right next to her small bed. Inside the desk was two small coin purses, filled with gold pareens. They were the only furnishings of the room, save for a trunk full of her clothes.

“My princess?” Her body sagged as she realized that it was only Ser Whittemore.

She straightened her night gown, a false silk made of bamboo. It was just as smooth and as cooling, but half the price. Lydia swung open her door and strode out to where Ser Whittemore stood. He was whole, which was relieving, but caked in the desert sand. The skin of his lips was cracked, and his clothes were a ruin. “You’re late.”

Ser Whittemore bowed his head. “Forgive me, Princess Lydia. There was a wind storm on the day before I was set to return. I lost my way and my senses became…confused.”

“It is no importance now, you are here.” Lydia waved her hand. In truth, her immense relief that he had returned outweighed any anger at his untimely nature. She walked towards the kitchen, a jug of water sitting on the cabinet. The cabinets were made of wood, dry birch that creaked whenever too much weight sat upon it.

Lydia fetched and poured a glass to offer to Ser Whittemore. “Tell me what you have found.” She commanded while he gulped down the offered drink.

“I found a Sovereign.” He replied after a moment. When Lydia had told him of her ideas, he had set to explain everything he remembered from the Cottleg desert as a young boy. There were wild packs that roamed the desert, full of shifters that didn’t feel the call of the wolves’ Mother Moon. They called their alphas Sovereigns, and power passed in a different way of blood right than any other kingdom.

Sovereigns were unlikely to pass their red eyes onto their children, since most were murdered. The new Sovereign would merge the two packs, if there were two, with the new Sovereign taking the old’s wives and sometimes, children. Other times, the children would be sold at ports or villages, not unlike the one that they lived near.

Ser Whittemore could only tell her so much because it was what had happened to him. Thankfully, before he was stripped of his shifter’s flesh and it was sold on the market, her king father had bought him. Kanima were notorious for being loyal and dutiful to their death. King Josiah had elevated the young man to knight rather quick, certain that he had his trust.

Lydia sunk onto his mat, a thin strip of cotton which was elevated by a thick piece of wood. “Tell me about them.” For Sovereigns, sex didn’t matter. A woman shifter may just as brutal a killer as a man. So Lydia couldn’t let it matter to her either.

“He’s capable. A large pack, and an unmated Sovereign. They call him Parrish; his shifters say that he has never lost a battle.” Ser Whittemore hesitated. “He’s young to be a Sovereign, but they say he’s triumphed in three Borraks, and they say that he spares the children.”

“Why would someone want to kill him when he has no wife?” Lydia asked.

“I didn’t see many packs as I wandered for you, three so small that they could move through the entire desert without notice. I found even more lone shifters, feral ones, or ones who travelled with only one other companion. Sovereign Parrish held the largest force that I had seen, with over a thousand shifters. It’s an enticing number to take.”

“It is.” It was enticing to her, the sheer number of it. It may be enough to take back the castle, if she could find the boats for it. “Will he meet us?”

Her knight frowned then. “He will.” Ser Whittemore began. “But he will not travel this close to the villages. The Sovereign fears the smugglers that hide like scorpions around here, ready to pick snatch up any children that wander too far from the pack.”

“Then we will go to him.” Lydia declared. “Where does he propose we meet?”

“It is half a day’s travel from here, on camel. I could go tonight to the market, see who is still selling and purchase the necessary requirements for us to leave at dawn.” Ser Whittemore responded.

Lydia truly looked at him then, how the undersides of his nails were crusted with dirt. How his eyes drooped, and his ears were lined with sand. “There is no need to bother with that tonight. Take a bath. Take a rest. In the morning, go to the village. We can leave tomorrow night, to avoid the heat.”

Ser Whittemore bowed his head. “Thank you, princess.” She rose from where he would sleep, touching his shoulder gently as she passed.

“Thank you, Ser. Your diligence has not gone unnoticed.” Lydia walked back to her bedroom, closing the door as she watched her most faithful knight smile.

\--

The night sky was beautiful in the Cottleg desert. Lydia had select few memories of looking up at the sky when she was in the castle, perhaps too young to care about the magnificence, or maybe the memories were just washed away with time. It was probably also lovely at the castle, with the towers so high that they would scrape the stars.

But here, she felt so tiny compared to the vastness. Ser Whittemore lead the camel she rode upon by it reins, giving her the ability to look until she was content. Each star seemed to have its own space in the sky, the beams twinkling out of its center. Lydia had noticed the stars in the house at Desert’s Edge, but they had always seemed dwarfed by the homes she spied on the horizon.

She had dressed heavy for the cold desert night, with a scarf that covered her head and wrapped around her face. Whittemore had insisted, saying that it would allow her to breathe if a sand storm struck up again. They were set to reach Sovereign Parrish’s encampment at dawn.

During the night, Ser Whittemore had told her more about the man. He was no older than thirty, with no scar upon his body. His appearance was that of a shifter from the Martin or Stilinski kingdom, with a straight nose and light features. The pack was full of children, men and women and elders. They had tents, which were kept on horses during the day, and made of coarse, thick linen.

Lydia dozed during the journey, trusting Whittemore to wake her should he need to. The rhythm of the camel’s gait was soothing. She had taken care to sleep during the day, so that she may appear restful and attentive when they met Sovereign Parrish. Ser Whittemore had explained that he would speak with her directly, that their god Vatrya commanded that all marriages be agreed by the individuals, and not just the families.

“What happens if after a Borrak, the dead Sovereign’s wives do not wish to wed the championed Alpha?” Lydia had asked.

“Vatrya says they may have a choice, princess.” Ser Whittemore sounded grave. “They can choose to die.”

She had stopped asking questions after that. Lydia was sure in her path, seeing it as the best way forward, but the cruelty of these people made her deeply uncomfortable. Instead, she had chosen to look up at the stars and then rest her eyes.

“My princess,” Ser Whittemore woke her when the horizon was pink, with the west still plum with night. “We are close.”

She rubbed the dirt out of her eyes and sat up taller. Her mother did not teach her much in the way of women before she left the world, but she did tell her that a straight spine would compliment her front. “You can hear them?” He nodded. “Then they can hear us as well. Let’s not keep the Sovereign waiting.”

The encampment could be seen from where he had stopped them, a smudge on the horizon. They walked for another hour before coming upon it. Lydia knew that Ser Whittemore had not been spreading falsities then, as it seems like a linen tent city, with the pack stretching as far as the eye could see.

The shifters wore leathers and cotton, each creased with age. There were groups eating in front of tents, out of small clay bowls, gathered in circles. They watched as Lydia passed them but said nothing to her. Children ran naked between the tents, some shifted partially. There were young ones with scales on their faces, and others with a shadow fire overlaying their features. Some others were fully shifted, into coyotes and bobcats, their forms lithe and lean.

Towards the middle of the tent city, or what Lydia would have to assume was the middle, sat a tent that rose above the others. It was a beautiful red color, unlike the yellow sand color of the rest. _The Sovereign waits there. He waits for me._

She kept her eyes forward while they traveled. Ser Whittemore would defend her with his life if need be, and she was uncertain if custom decreed that the possible mate of the Sovereign would look at those clearly below her Alpha mate. Lydia did not wish to appear weak in first introductions.

The red tent loomed before them, before she was expecting. Two men stood outside the doors, looking at them. Ser Whittemore said something in the harsh, guttural tone of shifter language. They responded in turn. It had been too long since she heard the tongue from someone besides Whittemore, but theirs sounded somewhat different. The tones felt somewhat off, as if it was a sister of the wolf tongue, but not. Perhaps some shifters could not make the same sounds as the wolves of the kingdoms, and instead adapted.

After a few moments of back and forth, the two men stepped away from the doors. Ser Whittemore offered his hand to help her down from the camel, which Lydia accepted. She had yet to take off the scarf, as the sun began to climb as they had walked through the pack, and her skin was particular sensitive to the rays.

The doors were opened for her, and she stepped inside. The inside was cool and vast, with a bed towards the back, and a table set up in the middle of the room. There were torches inside, which Lydia thought spelt danger, and a man and woman stood near the table. The woman was dark skinned, with hair that was cut to her chin. She was facing them when they entered.

The man was tall. It was the first thing she thought of the Sovereign, when he had his back turned to her. He had tattoos covering his arms and snaking up his back. She could see them ending near his neck. They were all red, angry-looking welts. Somehow, Lydia knew that it was a stylistic choice, and that the marks he bore were not from a battle. Ser Whittemore stepped in behind her and began to speak. Lydia allowed him to, though she could not understand his words.

The woman responded. She started gesticulating as she kept speaking, her face becoming more and more lively. For a moment, Lydia felt as if she had mis-stepped. This woman was upset, and the only issue she could see in the room was her and Ser Whittemore. Before she had a chance to face the question to her knight, the Sovereign spoke.

“Leave us.” His voice was deep and smooth. He spoke with a quiet confidence, and Lydia was thrilled to note that he spoke in the human tongue. It would be easier to talk to someone when they shared a language. The woman looked ready to retort something, before closing her mouth and striding away. Ser Whittemore looked at Lydia, tension in the line of his shoulders.

“I will be close enough to hear if you should need me.” He promised.

“I will call if I do.”

And then they were alone. The Sovereign did not turn to face her, and Lydia did not say anything. She should have asked more while they walked, should have read more while she waited, and not let her delicacies frighten her away from learning. Perhaps if she had continued on after learning that some mated to ten-year olds, she would know what the custom was here.

The Sovereign seemed to take mercy on her, however. “They call me Parrish.” He said, still facing away. His hand drifted over the wood of the table, settling against the grain.

“My knight told me.” Lydia responded. Then she bit her tongue, hard, as her words came out biting. “I am Lydia Martin, heir to the throne of the Martin Kingdom.”

He turned his face to her then. He had green eyes, so, so light. The Sovereign was not unhandsome, with his tattoos and pale skin and seafoam eyes. “You were.” Is what he said. It took Lydia a few moments to understand his meaning. In a flash, she was furious, that he would dare bring that up as the second thing he had ever said to her. “Sit.” He commanded.

Parrish sat himself at the table, gesturing for her to join him. Fire boiled in her blood, and she wanted to rip at the scarf that covered her and use it to strangle him. Instead, she stalked over to the table.

“I _am_.” She replied icily. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him.

He only smiled at her. “You were. And you wish to be again, or else you would not have sought me out.”

The Sovereign had the truth of it. Lydia felt her cheeks heat in embarrassment, unused to having to ask for the things she wanted. Even now, even ten years after her family had been murdered, she commanded when she could. It came as easy as breathing.

“I do,” Lydia responded.

“Of course, you do.” Parrish agreed. “So you come here, to me, and offer yourself for a crown. Is your plan to take my pack and march north? Or would it be to gather allies, and then make for the Martin kingdom? What would you give in return?” The Sovereign raised his hand before she could respond. “Not to me, to them. To the pack.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out for a moment. “What do they desire?”

“That’s the heart of the issue, isn’t it? How can you get my pack, or the packs of others, to follow you? What do they want, Lydia of House Martin, heir to the Martin throne?” His voice was still smooth, and his face was still genial. Lydia felt as if she had been run in circles though.

Parrish continued. “You come here, wanting what you want and unexpecting for others to have wants as well. You do not know of my people, of our ways. And yet you think to command my pack from the position of my mate.”

“I could learn.” Lydia defended, heart beating fast. The way he laid out her wants made her nervous. It made her feel like selfish, and much more known than she would like. “I would learn, if they were to be my people as well.”

“You could,” The Sovereign didn’t seem to expect her answer.

“I recognize that everyone wants something, and as a Queen, it would be my duty to make sure that those needs are met.” She pushed on. He blinked at her for a moment.

“If everyone wants something, Lydia of House Martin, then what do I want?”

Lydia studied him for a moment, weighing her choices to respond. She could be completely honest – that she had no idea what a Sovereign of the Cottleg desert could desire, or she could attempt to think out what he may want. He could want power, but he commands a large pack. Parrish already had freedom, had control.

“You want a mate?” She ventured.

He looked away from her then, casting his eyes up. “Yes, I do want a mate.” He said slowly. “I have a seat at Mount Zendar, I have a my three Pawas, who will ride with me to the Burning Plains. I have a teeming pack, and sharp claws. But my chest remains unburnt and I have no one to carry my heart.”

His language was queer to her, most of his terms unheard of in her Kingdom. Yet, she nodded. “I could be that mate.” She offered, pulling down her scarf to show the sincerity on her face. Lydia knew the price she was paying, before she even sent Ser Whittemore away from her.

The Sovereign eyes traveled back to her, saying something quiet in the shifter’s language. He leaned forward, and Lydia made herself stay perfectly still. Parrish plucked a few strands of her hair, cradling it in his palm. “Like Vatrya herself,” He murmured.

His face was so close to hers; Lydia could feel his breath brush over the invisible fuzz of her cheeks. “There is much to do, in the time coming up to our ceremony at Mount Zendar, Lydia of House Martin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is where most of my GOT similarities live and die--in this plot thread. It won't have much of a similar storyline, but I did use GOT for the idea. 
> 
> Next chapter 2/28.


	5. Stiles

Scot was set to leave a few days just after the Hales had arrived. Stiles was aware of the fact, in mind if not in spirit. He had begun stowing his clothes into his trunks days before the Queen and her pack had come to the steps, and had started to wax poetry about Princess Allison even sooner than that.

When the Hale pack came, they greeted Scot warmly. He stepped up to each and ran his cheek along theirs, little huffing noises coming from his mouth. Stiles was aware of this custom, as Scot had done it several times to him in the past, and knew it was to allow other wolves to smell the person on them. It was a way of showing that they were close or welcoming towards each other. The Hales didn’t seem to get the memo that Stiles was accustomed to this feature of wolves, so he was spared from the activity.

His king father kissed Queen Talia’s hand and said a greeting to the rest who were in attendance. Queen Melissa stood off to the side, with her head bowed and a smile on her face.

They all wore clothes befitting of nobles, with his family deciding on more lush and layered looks. His father had a deep red cape on, it trailing behind his back, and his crown had been polished. He wore a buttoned red top, with a white undershirt. His pants were white as well, with red socks and black leather shoes. Queen Melissa wore a dress to match, with white trim and underskirts. She had her hair fashioned up, all to sit atop her head with pretty jewels dangling from it. Scot and Stiles had chosen to wear less excessive clothing, with Scot opting for a fern-colored shirt and tan pants. He wore no shoes. Stiles had gone with their House’s sigil colors—a simple apple-red doublet, with a drawstring to tighten or loosen the neck, and black pants.

Queen Talia wore a purple dress that looked as soft as thick. Her pack seemed to follow her color decisions, with variations in shade and tone.

He had expected most of who came—Queen Talia, looking as regal and young as she did three years prior at Princess Laura’s wedding, and her children, Prince Derrik, Prince Conan, and Princess Cora. Stiles noticed her, was not surprised of her coming, and yet still felt like slime thinking of marrying one so young. Prince Derrik appeared to be the one most changed, despite how Princess Cora had started her growing period. He appeared sadder, and angrier. More than once, Stiles spied Queen Talia looking at her son. Her lord brother’s children came as well—Lady Malia, Lady Erica and her twin, Lord Isaac. And their adopted brother, Lord Boyd.

There was also a strange man traveling with them. He stood off to the side somewhat, smiled and bowed when Queen Talia introduced him as Lord Deaton. He wore simple clothes, a white top and black bottoms.

Princess Laura and her husband were a surprise. And a delight, for he did not know that she was pregnant. Stiles was also relatively certain that she had come with no ulterior motives, such as marrying him. Though he did jest that that was her true purpose when he saw her.

“Princess Laura, I had not thought you to come. Could you be the one to take my heart and hand?” He had bent down to kiss her hand.

After he straightened, he saw her smiling. Princess Laura held the curve of her stomach. “Unfortunately, I am still taken. And I will not be able to travel here again soon, for my pups will keep me busy at home.”

Stiles sighed dramatically. “The unfortune is all mine. For now, my heart cannot go on, and I do not if I will ever be able to love again!” He declared.

King Thomas coughed behind him, a rough sound that Stiles knew meant that he thought he was overstepping the social niceties. “To try to steal a man’s wife away, with a babe in her belly.” Princess Laura’s husband, Ian, put his hands around her. “Surely you can’t be so cruel.”

“I would never be cruel.” Stiles responded. “It seems you make her happy, and that is enough for my heart to go on.”

The princess stood on her toes to kiss Ian’s cheek. It made Stiles blush, the familiar intimacy. “He does. Make me happy, that is.”

Then Stiles’ king father stepped in. “If I may, I can understand if you are tired. I would have the servants see you to your rooms and allow you to rest before supper.”

Queen Talia inclined her head. “You are most gracious. We have been on the road for quite some time, and I think the children will appreciate the time to acquaint themselves with their current living quarters.” She smoothed a hand down her dress. “I, however, would prefer to see my rooms later. I was hoping that we could have a word before dinner?”

King Thomas nodded, barked a command to the servants standing near the walls of the welcoming hall, and took Queen Talia by the arm to lead her off. Soon they were out of sight, and Prince Conan and Lady Erica both had Stiles in their sights.

“It was nice to see you all again.” Stiles said hurriedly. “I hope you find your rooms to your satisfaction, and I will see you for dinner. Come, Scot.” He grabbed his brother’s arm to steer them away. Scot didn’t say anything that would make it seem like this was a strange occurrence, or unplanned.

Stiles now sat in Scot’s rooms, at his table while he moved through his outfits and threw things into his trunk. Then changed his mind about a shirt, or a pair of breeches, and would take it out again. He made small distressed noises each time he went back on a decision. “I’m going to call the tailor! I’m going to order new shirts and pants, ones that glide on my skin and shape my arms.” Scot declared.

Stiles, who had been tossing a small wooden trinket of a ship up and down, leaned up on his chair. “You shan’t.” He said. “They wouldn’t be able to make you a new wardrobe in less than a week. You’ll give poor Henrich Tailor a crying fit, and then he won’t make your mother’s dresses anymore.”

He moved out of his chair, to where Scot was pacing. He didn’t have to be a wolf to sense the tension. “Princess Allison will like you regardless of what you wear. The first time you met her was when you had come in from the woods, feet encased in mud, to show me a frog you had found. Do you remember, brother?”

Scot frowned. “Of course, I do. She was a shy thirteen then, and I had no notion of marrying her.”

“Yet she still turned as red as our king father’s cape.” Stiles pointed out. “She has treasured you since she laid eyes on you, and whether you wear flowing silk or nothing at all, she will still fancy you.” He paused, a wicked grin overtaking his face. “Actually, Princess Allison would probably like you better if you wore nothing at all.”

“Stiles!” Scott cried. His cheeks turned splotchy and he looked anywhere besides his brother’s face. It was wildly amusing to watch Scot squirm over the ideas of sex. He could speak on Princess Allison’s skin, or scent, or hair, but speak on the marital duty, and he would clam up.

A swift knock came on his door. “Yes?” Stiles called out with amusement clear in his voice. Bothering Scot was just what he needed to lift his mood.

Regin, a young servant boy, stuck his head in. “My princes, King Thomas commands you to come to sup.” He was a favorite of King Thomas’, quick and dutiful, without the look of fear in his eyes. Too many of the older servants held that look in their eye, after Stiles’ late king grandfather.

“Thank you, we shall be down the moment Prince Scot is able to formulate thoughts again.”

“Stiles,” Scot cried, embarrassed to be called out in front of the servant boy.

“Or can say anything besides my name.” Stiles said cheerfully. Scot whacked him hard on the arm, so Stiles darted away. He growled, attempting to grab onto Stiles and most likely drag him to the ground.

Stiles let out a whoop of laughter while zig-zagging away from Scot. “Yes, my princes.” Regin said, quickly shutting the door. Doubtless, he would tell their king father of their tomfoolery, and he would scold them sometime when they were alone. He would point out how they had made their allies wait at the table, when they traveled far to see Stiles specifically.

The thought sobered him, enough that his scent shift stopped Scot. “Let’s go,” Stiles moved to the door before Scot could respond, feeling dread in his stomach. He had managed to trick his mind into thinking this was a social call for a few hours. Even as they descended their tower and walked through the main corridor of the garden, the sweet smell couldn’t lift his spirits.

The reception was in the Great Hall, to host the men and wolves that had traveled with the Hales to the Stilinski castle. Stiles and Scot came in from the large, mahogany doors that opened to the welcoming hall. They walked past the men sitting at the long tables, towards the dais where their king father and Queen Melissa, and the Hales sat.

Stiles climbed up the platform, noting how Queen Talia sat at his king father’s right. There was Princess Laura next to her, with a spot between them. On the other side, was Queen Melissa sitting next to Prince Conan. Prince Derrik sat after a spot between them. It was custom for the firstborn son to sit next to his father’s right, and the next son sit to the mother’s left. Then came the rest of the boys, and afterwards the girls sat, flowing outwards.

It was different in the Hale kingdom, Stiles knew. They preferred a woman’s rule, with the Queen’s being the true control of the country and often being the Alpha of a pack. He sat down next to Queen Talia.

She smiled as he took his seat, and then King Thomas stood up. “Thank you for being here. I am glad to host Queen Talia and her children in my house. I hope the Stranger sees us and turns her Face of Friends upon us.”

“May Mother Moon smile on you while we are here.” Queen Talia responded. It was a testy thing, how two kingdoms may interact with each other’s religion. Stiles did not know how tightly the Hales clung to their Mother Moon. He believed in the Three for his father did, and his father before him.

Sometimes Stiles had questioned it, but the Three were not an unknown god who shifted things in different and powerful ways. He could clearly see each of the Three at work, with each birth Life was there, each passing Death was there, and each new meeting, the Stranger hovered in the background, ready to turn his face.

King Thomas held up a goblet, toasting to the Queen’s words. The people in the Hall cheered back the words to her, each raising their own glass. After it quieted, Stiles’ king father called for the food to come. Servants carried out the food on heavy platters, large and wide. They set them down quickly at each table, while smaller portions were delivered to the dais.

Those below had hard bread and cheese, with steaming elk and potatoes. The potatoes had been boiled and mashed, the elk had been rubbed with salt and garlic. However, up where Stiles sat, they gave them smaller delicacies. They each were presented with a whole dove, roasted and dripping with butter. Basil leaves lay around it, and it smelled strongly of onion.

A small bowl of soup was given as well, pumpkin by the color. It was sweetened with milk and sugar and was viscous enough to cling to the bread. The bread flaked when pulled apart, small crumbles falling down the plate. There was also a small plate presented to each person with a salad at top it. It had ripe, red tomatoes and chilled cucumbers. A cheese was crumbled atop it, as well as pieces of hard garlic bread.

He wondered what Queen Talia thought of the food. Her face gave nothing away, but her pack sang praises to each dish. She ate quietly, efficiently. Stiles spent most of his time conversing with Princess Laura, of what she thought the gender her babe might be, of how she planned the nursery. He asked about names and she had leaned close. “We haven’t decided upon names yet, but each day Cora’s suggestions get more and more wild.”

Princess Cora leaned her head over her plate to look at them. Lord Isaac attempted to pull her back, but before he could, she called out, “Mooncake is not that strange of a name!”

Stiles chuckled with Princess Laura as Queen Talia apologized to Thomas about her younger daughter’s manners. A word of what Princess Laura said stuck with him, however. “Did you say names?”

She smiled, large and surprised. “Oh, I must not have said. The healers said I’m with twins!”

“Twins!” Stiles heard it was more common with wolves to foster two children at the same time, how driven their nature was to packs.

“Of course, it is too early to discover with their heart beats, but sometimes it feels as if there are two pups in there, doing their best to pull me apart.” Princess Laura nodded as she spoke, her hand idly rubbing her swollen belly.

“How I hope Life turns her face of Spring to you.” He said quickly, unthinkingly.

Princess Laura just laughed, most likely scenting his unsurety. _Could they smell indecisiveness? What all constitutes a change in my scent? Would they know what it was, without knowing me?_ “Mother Moon has already blessed me by giving me at least one pup.”

And the night had proceeded from there. His king father had made sure that Stiles had no more of a glass of their wine, but it flowed freely for the Hales. Scot had told him many times before that it was much more difficult for a wolf to get drunk, but that did not stop Prince Ian or Prince Conan from getting rosy-cheeked. Stilinski wine was said to be the freshest between the three kingdoms, with the perfect climate to grow the grapes. Each gallon of wine was to ferment for ten years before it was even thought to be touched, and the kind that graced the king’s table was always at least thirty.

All the wine was tasted beforehand, to make sure that it held a sweet tone that was overlaid with the rich earth flavor. The wine was a deep red than blood, light on the tongue and smooth down the throat. It filled the coffers with gold pareens and kept the wheel of the kingdom turning.

And Stiles was only allowed a glass of it, lest he make a fool of himself. After he finished the one, the kitchen maid serving him began to give him juice. Still as lovely in taste, but distinctly lacking in alcohol. It was also slightly mortifying knowing that Princess Laura could tell he was being served boy’s wine but had made the polite choice not to comment on it.

The night finished out with Stiles being sullen over his king father monitoring his drinking. And with an almond pie accompanied by a custard. The custard was sweetened with wine, a pretty yellow color. It came in tiny glasses, with a piece of almond pie stuck to the rim. Stiles dipped his into the custard, taking comfort that he couldn’t be given juice in his custard as well.

This was also the last time that he had to face the Hales in the next three days. His king father had taken more private suppers with Queen Talia and sometimes, Princess Laura. It was not expected for him to host a Hale child each night, and Stiles pushed that boundary as far as he could.

The first day he claimed he had to help Scot prepare for seeing his betrothed again. They spent the day in the woods, with his brother alternating between seeming star struck with Princess Allison and stricken with the idea that she could not care for him anymore.

Then, he saw Scot off at the dawn of the next day. Stiles had asked for the day alone and had spent most of it gazing from his tower at the gardens below. King Thomas said nothing of his son needing the time, recognizing the small, brittle part in Stiles that ached each time he had to part from Scot.

On the third, it became apparent that his father meant to have Stiles speak with the Hales again. That he could not keep dodging the problem with hopes that it would not rear its face. Stiles saw Regin walking towards him and stopped him before he could tell him something his king father commanded.

“I’m off to the temple. Whatever you have for me may wait until my return.” Stiles used his best commanding voice, hoping to sound confident when handling the boy.

Regin nodded. “I will see you to the temple, so that I can attest that you are in worship when I return to King Thomas.”

So that was how Stiles found himself in the temple. It was part of the main castle, on the first floor and next to the servant’s chambers. You would not know coming into it, however. Each of the walls was covered with a tapestry depicting one of the Three, with the wall holding the door bare. There were lines of pallets, to kneel and pray. No light entered the place, save for the candles and the sticks to light.

In front of each tapestry stood a figurine of the god. Life was made of all birch bark, to be totally white, three faces carved into the wood and each facing a different way. There was the face of Spring, a new born babe crying, then the face of Autumn, which was a young adult. It had the appearance of somehow male and female, the features superimposing over each other. The last face was of Winter, an old and grizzled face. The lines etched deep into the wood around the mouth and eyes.

Wenge wood was finished to give a deep, nonreflective black look to Death. He too had three faces. Two were the same of Life – the old face of death and the young one, the one that was freely given after a long life and the one snatched at the crib. The other was a terrible face, cut sideways across from brow bone to chin. From it dripped red maple, sticky and bright. Respectively, they were the faces of Age, Sickness and War.

The Stranger stood in the center, facing the wall holding the door. She had three faces as well and was made up of from a Yellowheart tree. The bark was light enough that it could be stained and finished to a beautiful ember. Her faces were different from both Life and Death. One was fashioned to smile, the face of Friends. The second was fashioned to look furious, a grotesque version of frown etched into the wood, the face of Enemies. The third face was no face at all, but smooth and empty of features. The face of the Unknown.

Stiles moved to the Stranger, a table with a bowl and two candles before it. There were sticks in a glass next to the bowl, to light and pray as the wood burned down. When the prayer was done, the left-over wood was to be tossed into the bowl, so that the Gods may remember who has asked for what. The Stranger’s bowl was near empty, which was to be expected.

Most people would come to temple to pray for a child or ask for safe passing for their parents. When a war swept the lands, the bowl before Death would be changed out many times a day. Everyone wanted to pray that He look over their loved one, that He guide their soldier was ushered kindly to the afterlife. Someone would only come to the Stranger when they were hoping the new person in their life was an ally. Usually, this was reserved for Lords and Kings, for peace treats and betrothal.

Exactly why Stiles would be standing before Her now.

He lit a match and couldn’t help but think, _Make it where I don’t have to do this. Let us be allies, let us have peace treats. Don’t make me do this._

Stiles had nothing to say of any of the Hale children, had no wishes in regard to one or another. The stick burned low, small wisps of smoke rising from it. He dropped it into the bowl as the door behind him swung open.

He looked to the entrance, noticing the queer Lord Deaton shutting the door behind him. “I would have thought that you believed in the Mother Moon.” Stiles said before he could stop himself. It was custom to not speak while in the presence of the Three, lest all their ears hear.

“Why?” Lord Deaton asked, also forgoing custom. “I am not a wolf, like my Queen. I was not even born in the Hale lands.”

“Then where were you born?” Stiles responded. He turned his back to the Stranger to watch Lord Deaton survey the room.

“In the Republic. As a young, poor thing. Over in the Republic, there is no gods to follow or worship, none that the state pushed upon us. It is similar to the Martin Kingdom.” The lord didn’t look at him as he spoke. He walked to Life, standing too close the table.

“You mean the Argent Kingdom.”

Lord Deaton hummed, but otherwise did not reply. It was quiet within the temple for a moment. Stiles thought of leaving, slipping out to allow the lord whatever he came here for. “Have you ever wondered why men worship Death?”

Stiles blinked. “Not particularly.” He said, now wondering. “It’s because He’s everywhere, in everything. Everything has an end.”

“So, the god must be worshipped simply by fact of being encompassing?”

“No,” Stiles started. “No, I think people pray to Him because he guards those that have passed on. It’s a way to speak to those we’ve lost.” It was truth for Stiles. How in the first few months of his queen mother’s passing, he had laid below the table next to Death. He sometimes awoke to his head pressed against the Wenge wood.

“A terrible thing, to lose someone.” Lord Deaton responded. “And often times, rather unnecessary.”

“Death is natural.” Stiles rebutted.

The bizarre lord then faced him, a knowing smile on his lips. It seemed disingenuous somehow. “Some is. Even your many-faced Death shows that not all are natural. Would you say it’s just as good for a man to die having fathered children and loved his wife, in his bed old and grey, as one who died in his first battle at the tender age of fifteen?”

“Of course I wouldn’t say that.” Temper flaring, Stiles attempted to stifle his emotions. It had felt like Lord Deaton had accused him of something, while saying nothing at all. “But war cannot always be avoided, and men cannot choose when to die.”

“War cannot be avoided? What makes that so? Is it in our nature, as it is our nature to die? Or do the ones in power it will it so, for whatever reason – money, love, power?” Like glimpsing his own end, Stiles realized where this conversation was ending. Lord Deaton continued on. “Yet there are those in power who seek to prevent war. Why would they do that, if it is in our nature? Unless they care for those who would die in the war – surely not them, in their stone castles, but instead the farmer, baker, tailor.”

“I understand what you are trying to say, Lord Deaton.” Stiles bit out. He felt foolish and angry, shamed for his motives for hiding clear.

“I am not attempting to say anything,” Lord Deaton replied. “I do not need an attempt to tell you that your willful discontent towards your possible intendeds pull more and more innocents to your Death.”

Then he had shot a distasteful look to where Death sat, the face of Age before slipping from the temple. As he shut the door, he said, “I hope to see you with the Hales, the next time we meet. For I’m afraid this is the only conversation we shall get in your lands.”

Stiles stayed there for a few more hours. He alternated between indignation, _how dare a lord address a prince in such a way,_ and humiliation, _how dare I call myself a prince when I shy so from my duties._

When Stiles departed from the temple, having only prayed at the Stranger, the sun was dipping below the trees. The orange hue warmed the stones of the corridor. He could hear distantly the kitchens and the servant quarters, alight with orders and laughing and shouts. They were his people, here to serve him and to be taken care of in return.

\--

The next day found him peering out to the garden and noticing that Lord Isaac sat near the fountain. _There is no time like the present_ , Stiles thought, dressing in a top that was as blue as the deep sky. He wore a pair of black pants, fearing the stains he may put on a white pair, and walked down the tower.

Lord Isaac looked up as he strode over, much later than he must have sensed Stiles. He appreciated the politeness behind the gesture. “Prince Stiles,” He called, rising and bowing to his waist. He wore a mauve doublet that stuck out from his paler form. His hair fell towards his face in curls, and his eyes were wide pools as he looked upon Stiles.

“Lord Isaac,” Stiles responded, dipping his head. He had made it to the bench where Lord Isaac sat, facing away from the fountain and towards the flowers. It was early spring, so the dianthus plants were in full bloom. They made up patches of the garden bushes, the outer edge heavily petaled and white. As it snuck further in, the white turned to a scarlet.

The irises had also bloomed, ruffled and large and white. They spread out far, catching the eye with their beautiful shape. Crocuses littered the garden floor, tucked close to the wall and making the ground the color of blush. Gazanias were Stiles’ personal favorite though, and several bushes along the wall were dedicated to the spring bloom. It was a magnificent flower, large enough to spill over two hands. The petals edges were highlighted with the color of the sun and the color deepened, past orange, to a cherry red at the center of the petal. The bud was also a vibrant yellow, with the appearance of fur and the flower never ceased to awe Stiles’ in its beauty.

“What are you doing out here, if I may ask?” Stiles started the conversation, attempting to connect.

Lord Isaac plucked a book from the bench, it’s cover leather bound and the words fading. “The sun is kind today, so I thought I might read outside. What brings you to the garden, Prince Stiles?”

He couldn’t very well say he was hoping to talk to Lord Isaac, especially when he had nothing in mind to talk about, so instead he spoke on the flowers. “I’ve always loved the gardens. The blooms this year are wonderful, and now all the plants have opened. There’s only a few weeks before one plant or another begins to dispose of its flower.”

“Is this your favorite time of year, when the gardens bloom?”

Stiles shook his head. “Spring is not the only time that flowers come. There are flowers that prefer the cold, some that prefer the sweltering heat of the summer, and some that only come out when the harvest comes.”

“So which is your favorite?” Lord Isaac asked.

“I love autumn.” Stiles responded, looking at a Gazania that had yet to open. The petals curled inward, giving the appearance of stiff straw. “The flowers that come then are large and bold in color. With cold mornings and nights, they truly make it feel as if the sun is here.” He could see it in his mind’s eye.

Rudbeckia and Helenium would bloom side by side, each cousin in appearance to Gazanias. They both had large buds, and were made of deep reds, bright yellows and hues of orange. There would also be Colchicum, bred to be a white with a blue tint. It would crop up where the Crocuses were now, in tight clumps with no leaves. When Stiles looked at it, he thought of the winter to come instead of the summer that had ended.

“I should have brought you a book on flowers from the Hale libraries.” Lord Isaac broke the silence. The memory, or hallucination of future, disappeared from Stiles.

“Did you bring me a book?” Scot had told Stiles to expect courting offers from each of the Hales, that he could accept them for a moment, but must be ready to give it back if he does not choose to mate the gifter. “What is the topic?”

“It is a travel log of those who went north of our kingdom, to see what lies in the icy wastes.”

“That sounds interesting.” Stiles prayed his heart not show that as a lie. It wasn’t uninteresting but was sincerely never a subject he had thought about. “Isn’t that where the black stone of the Hale castle was found?”

Lord Isaac nodded. “I could have someone bring it to your chambers? I fear I don’t have it on me.”

“I would be most grateful.” Lord Isaac smiled, a cherubic appearance. Stiles wished it had stirred something in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update 3/3...very excited for it!!


	6. Derrik

After two days of waiting in his rooms for Prince Stiles to call upon him, Derrik had decided that he would fill his time instead of just waiting for the Stilinski prince. He donned some tough clothes, made of linen and dull in color, before heading towards the forest he spied just outside the castle walls. He was in the west tower of the castle and had looked out his window to see it the night they had arrived.

It called to him since, and he meant to go meet the call. Derrik had sent Joren to ask about how to get to the woods. He learned that there was door at the back of the garden, guarded by two men on most days. He decided not to tell Joren to run back to whoever gave him this information and tell him that that was how castles were able to be taken and kings killed.

Instead, he thanked Joren and strode down to the doors with his drawing book in hand and a charcoal pencil tucked behind his ear. No one asked him questions at the door, and soon he was in the wood. It was beautiful, overgrown and wild. Derrik could smell Scot on every tree and blade of grass though. He found it somewhat endearing that this wood was most likely allowed to grow to give the young wolf a place.

Derrik looked at the surrounding foliage. He could hear the tell-tell thrum of prey, hiding behind rocks and saplings. He also heard the sound of a rushing brook. Today, Derrik had decided to take residence up at the brook and sketch the small fish that swam down it. The front of their bodies were an electric blue, which then shifted to a bright vermillion. Their fins were so clear that Derrik hadn’t noticed them at first.

He stayed there all day, first sketching the fish and then doodling ways that neon colors that the fish wore could be placed upon clothing. Perhaps a silk would take the shades easier than cotton, or maybe he could use jewels to imitate the sparkle of the scales.

The sun had gone low by the time he had finished with his last drawing, a long flowing dress that had pieces rising from the hip, clear stiff silk, with other silk cascading down. The inner dressing would be the bright orange, while the outer would showcase the blue.

Joren had been beside himself when Derrik had arrived back at his chambers. He apologized for the food being cold and for the soup chilled to the point that a layer of oil lay over it and the lack of variety. Derrik waved him off, for the bread was still soft, and the soup still had a rich taste of oyster to it.

Sleep came to him and the next day, he continued to study the small fish. He watched how the sun caused their scales to make bright, broken beams along the smooth rocks in the stream. It lit up in him, the idea to fashion a piece of clothing that reflected like metal. The idea struck inside him, that he could use metal as an instrument of the outfit.

He drew a tunic, somewhat outdated in custom, with chain mail that lay upon the shoulders, creating plates, that swung to the other side in a necklace fashion. The chains would drip lower across the chest, ending in a smooth line. The mail would be stainless steel, coated with a blue dye. The tunic underneath would be the vibrant reddish orange the fish possessed.

The completion of his project satisfied Derrik, and he took sup with Laura and Ian. Laura spent most of it bent over a clean chamber pot, emptying her stomach. Ian and he had never had much in common besides his sister, so it was quiet. But the scent and bond of pack made him settle more. He felt at peace, despite that he was leagues away from his true home and all that was occurring.

Derrik wished to explore more of the wood, so unlike the creatures and plants in his woods, the day after. He had begun to send Joren down to the barracks, to learn fighting from the knight who trained the young boys of the Stilinski kingdom. Joren had returned the night before with a large welt across his face, but he had looked at Derrik and had _grinned_ , his scent happy and excited.

After he had sat out Derrik’s clothes and gotten leave, Joren darted out the door the next day. Derrik couldn’t deny that being here was seemingly good for the boy, surrounded by other humans who would fight him with sword and not claws. It would build confidence in Joren.

The prey still hid from Derrik’s eyes, excellently so. He ducked behind trees and looked under bushes, and never found a small animal. None darted from their underbrush hiding spots, the thrums overlaying each other to where he would have to focus to determine where one or another came from.

Around noon, he stumbled upon a tiny grove, shaded by the tall trees surrounding it. The trees here were lush and full, with a thousand tiny leaves on them. Underneath the shade, covering most of the grove floor, was the strangest plant Derrik had ever seen.

It was a flowering plant, with several of its blooms hanging off each stem. The flowers were fuchsia in the outer petal color. They dipped down from their tiny stems to hang below, in the shape of a heart, with a dew drop coming off of each. Some of the flowers had their petals lifted, exposing a creamy under petal of white. Derrik began to circle the grove with his pencil in hand.

This is where the Stilinski prince found him, though neither expected it. Derrik had been absorbed in his drawing, and the prince had a heartbeat not too unlike the prey of the wood. When Prince Stiles came upon him, he made a sound of terrible fright.

Derrik also jumped, his shoulders tensing. “Forgive me, Prince Derrik.” Prince Stiles was already speaking, before Derrik had a moment to control his heart. “I had not expected to find anyone out here.”

“Then why did you come?” Derrik responded. It took him less than a heartbeat to want to start on his burial, how crass he had come across.

Prince Stiles blushed, the shade making his features prettier. Derrik studied him with an artist eye, his whiskey eyes, large and doe-like, with a slightly up-turned nose and a cupid bow for lips. His features were dotted with moles, standing stark against his pale skin. Derrik looked away, attempting to keep the guise of his artistic mindset. “I was missing my brother, and he enjoyed here greatly.”

“He hasn’t been gone a week yet.” Derrik pointed out. _You must want to push the prince away by being the most moronic creature you could be_ , he chided himself.

The Stilinski prince shrugged. “Heartache has no need to make sense, it just is.”

Derrik thought of Paige, of how little time he had with her, and how two years later, he still felt sick with pain sometimes.

“What are you doing out here?” Prince Stiles asked in following, peering down at his drawing book. “Are you drawing the Bleeding Hearts?”

“The _what_?”

“The flowers,” Prince Stiles gestured to the strange plant in the tiny grove.

Derrik looked down at his cracked book, seeing the faint outline of one of the flowers. There was no use denying the truth of it. “I am,” He said it with confidence, hoping that the Stilinski prince was less cruel that Katherine had been.

“May I see?” Was all Prince Stiles asked, settling down on his knees next to Derrik.

He handed his book over, feeling uneasy at letting it out of his grasp. Derrik knew he could just say no. It would result in some seconds of disappointment for the prince, and then Derrik wouldn’t feel this way. He didn’t want Prince Stiles to see his designs, started to guess again at his finished fish piece.

Instead, when Prince Stiles took the book, he looked only at the page presented. All that was on it was different angles of the flower, the Bleeding Heart, as it was so aptly named. He looked up at the bloom and back down to the parchment.

“You have an excellent eye for detail.” Prince Stiles said, giving the book back. Derrik, wildly, for a moment wished to show him everything he had ever done. He felt flushed with a giddy sense of accomplishment, the praise making him happy. “Is what you draw mostly flowers and the like?”

“It’s clothes.” Derrik blurted out. “I mainly draw clothing.”

“Then what are you doing out here?” The prince’s scent changed to lightning, to grey clouds and warm, moist earth. He was mortified, probably thinking he had offended Derrik.

“Most of my designs come from ideas of the woods. Mother Moon made all this beauty, natural and pure. It would be a shame not to draw inspiration from that.” Derrik closed his book, hands tightening around the leather. The words were a little more vulnerable than he meant to say.

Prince Stiles hummed, before smiling broadly. “Have I ever seen anything you’ve fashioned?”

“No, I wouldn’t.” Derrik stopped and started his speech. “My mother doesn’t care much for clothes that take more than a few minutes to put on. I have made many a thing for Conan, but most of it is coats and things of the like.” He looked up out of the trees. To the bright, warm sun. “There’s not much need for that here.”

“Could I see something that you’ve made? If not in person, in drawing?” Prince Stiles smelled interested. He looked at Derrik attentively, hopefully, his eyes liquid and large.

Derrik took a moment to think of all the things he had made. He thought to a dress he had made of a different flower, one from his home. It was Hellebore, one of the few that would bloom despite how cold it was. It would pop up through the several feet of snow, all throughout the woods around the castle.

He flipped to it, towards the beginning of the book. Derrik had seen the bloom many times before, but it was less than a year ago that he felt whole enough to draw again. The book was once again passed to Prince Stiles.

The sketch was well known, and well loved, by Derrik. He could picture it even without the book in front of him. He had liked the design well enough that once he finalized it, he had called for paints to show the shades. It was a dress, long-sleeved and flowing. The outer color was a beautiful cream white, the dress went down in such a way that the white split after the hips, to open up to an inner skirt. The inner skirt was a deep currant. The arms would swoop out slightly after the elbow, the hem tattered in such a way to give the illusion of petals. The inside of the arms was the same currant color, and when the sleeves would shift, the color would be exposed.

He had several different poses with the dress jotted down. Some were just close-ups of how the sleeves would function. “It’s beautiful.” Prince Stiles said, his hands grazing against the crinkle where Derrik had added too much paint.

“Thank you.” Derrik cleared his throat, the sudden sincerity now clouding. He was happy to receive a small token of praise, but the quiet way Prince Stiles spoke was too much. “When is Prince Scot set to return?”

The distraction worked as the Stilinski prince turning away from his book. He closed it gently, frown marring his features. His shoulders lifted and fell as he sighed. Derrik felt a queer guilt at reminding the prince of his worries. “It may take him up to a month to reach the Argent castle, and then he will stay with Princess Allison to celebrate her birth. Depending on her welcoming, he could stay a month or two there. By the time he returns, I’ll have already left.”

“Perhaps you could write to him to meet us in the northern lands.” Derrik knew not where his offer came from. He disliked Prince Scot, and his ragged determination, and his shiny optimism. “My family found pleasure in hosting him once before, so I see no great reason why it would be a hardship.”

Prince Stiles smiled at him then. It lit up his features, his pink lips and white teeth transfixing. Derrik coughed as he averted his gaze, “Thank you, Prince Derrik. That sounds like a lovely idea.”

\--

Laura had invited him to eat with her the same night he had spoken to Prince Stiles. Derrik had returned before the prince, distracted once he knew that he was in the woods. He had stared at the Bleeding Hearts an hour longer, hearing the way that the prince would stumble over weeds and roots or the soft huffs of breath that escaped him when he regained his footing.

Derrik recognized that the day was lost to drawing and retired to his chambers. Joren was not there, instead in the barracks, and he lay on his bed for a moment. He could smell the phantom of the prince’s scent on his drawing book, on his Hellebore dress. It was mint and honey, sweet, yet sharp.

A kitchen maid had brought Laura’s request to him, in leu of food. It may have caused him to snap at her at one time, to think that he would agree and did not bring food, but now he was happy to eat with his sister.

When he arrived to his sister’s chambers, a settee with soft pillows was in her eating quarters. The table still sat, and with it his cousins and brother and sister, but Laura lounged on the settee. They were discussing who had had moments with Prince Stiles when Derrik entered.

“He accepted the book, and should he read it, that is even more we could talk about.” Isaac boasted. “I’ve already written to the Keepers at Moonpearl to find books on plants and package them onto the next ship to Jade Cove.”

“I haven’t had a moment to meet with Prince Stilinski yet,” Conan said, waving his hand. “It’s been so gorgeous here, now that I can wear less than my weight in cloth, I’ve been spending all my time on a balcony in the west tower.”

Derrik settled down next to Cora, who was laying her head on the table. He pushed his fingers through her hair in greeting. “Well, I’ve been avoiding him.” She said as she shoved her head towards Derrik’s retreating fingers. He kept up his stroking. “And that’s been working out great for me.”

“It’ll be working out great for you until mother gets wind of it. Then, you’ll be having an intimate lunch with just her and Prince Stiles.” Laura responded.

Cora made a grumbling sound. “She wouldn’t really do that, would she, Der?” She pushed herself off the table to look at him.

Derrik wanted to say that she wouldn’t, but he knew their mother. And if it gave her a chance to make a child of hers squirm, it was as good as done. His heart had already flipped when he thought of lying. Before he could open his mouth, a knock on the door sounded. Laura bade them to come in, and servants opened the door to carry in trays for eating.

They settled them onto the long table, sitting them in the middle to suggest that it would not be individual portions this time. Two older kitchen boys came in carrying a large platter, the silver lid lifting high from the plate. Derrik could smell the animal they were carrying, a hog that was drenched in honey and garlic. His mouth watered from the scent alone.

After the plates were all on the table, the servants removed the lids and took their leave. There was the giant platter of hog, the entire animal roasted and laid before them. It held leaves around the bottom of the beast in a decorative sense. To the left was a thick, white gravy in a serving bowl, and potatoes that were chopped and baked. They had sea salt covering them and pepper. Next to the potatoes was a mountain of manchet, all risen and fresh. Steam wafted from it.

On the other side of the hog was a plate of chopped squash and carrots, steamed to be soft. They were tossed in cumin and turmeric, the seeds of cumin sticking to the wet vegetables. Next to it was several empty bowls and another, deeper, serving bowl full of a thick glambotta made with bell peppers, chunks of onion, and soft clumps of tomatoes. On top of the stew were several bay leaves, to add flavor. To its right sat a jug of wine.

Derrik chose to cut himself a large portion of the roast and bowl of glambotta, while everyone fought over the choicest leg and the softest manchet. He looked over to Laura, who had yet to rise to the table. She noticed and waved away his concerns.

“I doubt my body could handle something so rich, right now.” Laura explained. “I had some plain bread earlier, with a sip of boy’s wine. My stomach may roll, but I doubt there is anything to expel tonight.”

He nodded, focusing back on the table. Erica and Malia were shoving each other, for the other thigh of the pig. “If you want meat that’s dark so badly, why don’t you just kill a crow?” Erica said as she pulled Malia’s hands away from the hoof.

“At least I can kill a crow. All you’d get is mouthful of feathers.” Malia shot back. Their chairs wobbled and tilted. Both fell in a heap on the floor, dresses askew and plates knocked to the ground. _At least the tablewear has yet to shatter_ , Derrik thought. He poured himself a glass and Cora as well, the wine as good as juice to them, before handing it over to Boyd on her left.

Conan had waited until Malia and Erica had disposed of themselves, then he reached over and plucked the leg. Boyd and Isaac had dueled over the other, though the fight was quick. Boyd made a high snarling sound, and Isaac had backed down. Conan pulled into the flesh with his teeth, asking, “Speaking of hunting, have you had a chance to offer the prince your deer?”

Malia and Erica disentangled themselves and sat before she responded. “I have not.” Malia replied. “I’ve seen him wander around the castle, mostly the gardens, but he is always flushed with food and dressed in finery. Even I’m not a fool to think Aunt Talia would have me by my guts if I tried to take him out of the castle and muddy up his pretty clothes.”

Derrik thought to earlier, how Prince Stiles had worn unassuming cloth. It was made of sturdy cotton, should he have to guess, and the pants were a black that dirt would not stain.

She then snatched the leg bone away from Conan. He let it go easily, mouth greasy as he smiled. He had already managed to eat a fourth and then cut himself a piece off from stomach. Conan reached over Malia to grab at the squash, plucking a few off the tray and placing it on his plate.

“What about you, Erica? How does Prince Stiles like the blade?” Isaac asked. Whether he was genuine in his interest, or curious in terms of their wager, Derrik could not say.

She snorted. “It seems the prince fears he would cut off his own finger should he even touch a knife. He refused it before even holding it.” Erica said it with enough anger, but her scent barely changed.

Conan crowed; the jug finally passed to him. He sat it down before pouring, “So it looks like it is just between Isaac and I now.”

“It was a good gift,” Erica insisted. “Any man should be grateful for a blade so fine.”

“Any man indeed,” Conan agreed, passing the jug while forgetting to fill his own cup. Malia said nothing as she took it and poured fast enough for some to slosh out of her glass and onto the table. “In fact, I would be honored to wield it if you have no need for it.”

They all knew that Erica had no need of it. Conan was the only one present who didn’t have weapons ready on the call of his will. She nodded. “We’ll consider it my payment for the bet.”

“Deal,” Derrik’s brother said, his grin as big as a hyena’s.

“Wait,” Isaac complained. “What happens if I win the bet?”

“You won’t.” Malia said, with confidence. “The prince can’t actually keep your present, so you won’t be able to win.”

“What do you mean?” Laura asked from her position. She slouched further down on the settee, hiking up her skirts and tucking a pillow between her legs. Another was hugged in front of her swollen stomach.

“It’s from the libraries, Isaac doesn’t own the libraries.” Malia had shoved some of the pig into her mouth, quieting and slurring her words some. “Only the Lord of Moonpearl can allow the books to be given away. Did you ask father?”

Isaac turned scarlet, answer enough.

“Have you decided what you’ll give him, Boyd?” Laura redirected the conversation.

Boyd, who was busy eating and staying quiet like Derrik and Cora, looked up at his cousin. “I thought of getting him a helmet, the boy seems to trip over his feet so much.” Boy was a bizarre word choice, in Derrik’s opinion. Prince Stiles was only two years younger than him and Boyd and was a _prince_. The wolf tongue may allow him to use language like that, but the people of the Stilinski kingdom may not take kindly to the familiar words.

Laura snorted, as Cora began nodding. “I’ve watched him, away from where he can’t notice me. He is as clumsy as a fawn.”

“He’s got eyes like a fawn too,” Conan noted. When everyone paused to look at him, he held up his hands. “You can say what you wish, but I know each of you has noticed it. Prince Stiles is doe-like. I bet it gets all your wolf hearts thumping like crazy.” He dodged Malia’s hand during his last sentence, hooting. It gave Derrik comfort, that the flight of fancy he had that afternoon was just part of his build.

Erica rolled her eyes. “Not all of us like the same thing. It would be to say that all men like what’s between a women’s legs and that is all – just some warm, wet cavern.” Her heartbeat stayed true, so once again Derrik was left wondering.

Conan grinned. “Well, _I_ like –” He started, ducking when Cora threw a handful of potatoes at him.

That was all it took for Malia to take the soup and dump it on her human cousin, his outraged cries urging her on. Boyd had the sense to duck below the table before Cora had a chance to smash soft vegetables onto his face. Instead, she hit Isaac with it, who retaliated with his wine. Some of it splashed upon Derrik, and he decided to rise quickly.

He knew of how the supper would go, why he hadn’t changed out of his wood wear. It didn’t mean that Derrik had wished to include himself in the madness. The scent of his pack, all a mess of pig fat and wine and glambotta, happy and whole was worth it. He watched the table shake as Conan attempted to manhandle Malia.

He wondered how his mother would respond should they break the table. Laura watched avidly from the settee, too far from the food and much too fat to get in on the mayhem. Boyd crawled over to where Derrik stood, his back to the door.

“It was smart to eat quick.” Boyd noted that both of their plates were near empty. The sound of a glass shattering reached them. Erica screeched, as glambotta was run down her dress.

“Did you expect anything else?” Derrik responded. Boyd just shook his head, and they waited for Laura to pull things in. Both of the boys were horrible at resolving the family fights, but a word from the eldest could silence them all.

She waited until a plate broke, before saying, “Enough.” Each set of eyes looked up at her, Conan’s fine silk top stained and torn. Erica wore a dress much like Queen Talia would, and it was soggy and stuck to her skin. Isaac had clumps of squash in his curls, as did Malia. Cora was the only one who looked slightly appropriate, though her sleeves were covered in glambotta. “All this fighting is bad for the babies.”

It took her only a minute to dissolve into giggles. The rest of the pack soon followed suit and the serving maids came by a moment later. They held tiny bowls of dessert in their hands and looked shocked at the destruction that was waiting for them. They sat the bowls down gently, saying that they would come back with more help.

“I’m sorry,” Derrik said as they passed him. Laura was too busy laughing with tears rolling down her face.

Boyd nodded. “As am I.” One of the girls looked at both of them. She had mousy brown hair and a watery complexion. Her scent changed to fear and she winced as she curtsied in front of them.

After she fled, Boyd and Derrik frowned at each other. Both were used to being on the outside of the pack, the less than congenial ones, the ones whose simple statures intimidated.

The pack ate around the floor while the kitchen staff cleaned. They formed something akin to a circle around Laura. The bowls held a frozen milk, with chunks of strawberry in it. While they ate, it melted into a thick, sugary cream that tasted as sweet as it did when frozen.

Derrik returned to his chambers soon after, as Erica and Malia had stripped from their soiled dresses. Conan had removed his ruined silk blouse and had left with a wink. However, when Erica and Malia attempted to do the same, Laura stopped them. She explained that a half-nude man was much more common, and they were to wear something of hers before they left.

They were arguing still when Derrik took his leave. Joren was in his chambers when he returned, setting out Derrik’s sleep clothes. His right arm was bandaged. “What happened to you?” Derrik asked as he stripped from his clothes.

The day must have been eventful, for Joren scarcely paused before responding. “Ser Fletcher the Old was teaching us how to block someone swinging at us, and I accidentally held my arm up too far to the left. And Meren, even though he saw, decided he didn’t care and would teach me a lesson. I think he’s upset because I’m a squire to a prince and he’s just a squire to a knight as old as he is blind.”

“Why do you call Ser Fletcher, ‘the Old’?” Derrik asked, tightening on his sleeping pants.

“Well, because his son says he’s going to be a knight soon, even though he’s only thirteen and I think it’s false, but he told us all that we’re to call his father Ser Fletcher the Old. Since they’ve got the same last name and all.”

“How does Ser Fletcher feel about that?” He spotted a small jar on his night table, likely left by one of the maids who tidy the room. It was something he asked for Joren.

Joren shrugged his shoulders. “It’s not like we say it to his _face_.”

It was reminiscent of Cora, her face scrunched up as she explained why what she was doing wasn’t actually bad, since the person she was doing it to didn’t know it. Derrik smiled at the memories. “I have something for you.”

“For me, my prince?” Joren blinked up at him.

Derrik plucked the jar from the night table and held it up to the boy. “It’s a healing salve.” He unscrewed the lid, the lotion inside a milky purple. It smelled of lavender. “You rub it on your bruises, and it should help them lighten quicker.” He knew this one worked, as it was the one that Conan would use after a rough full moon.

Joren had taken the jar carefully from Derrik then, scurrying into the adjacent room. It was where the servants had set up his bed. A squire was to live by the knight’s side who he served, or in Derrik’s case, a prince.

He went to sleep with the smell of lavender and feeling like he had finally made progress with the young boy. Derrik also thought of Stiles, of honey and mint and how their meeting was still theirs alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update 3/7. 
> 
> We'll meet our final main POV, and the story can really and truly get started!


	7. Allison

Allison knew the secrets of the castle in a way that the rest of her family could never hope to. When it was constructed, it was made to be as ornate and gaudy as possible. The entire castle was at least three stories high, with no parts dipping below that height. There were countless peaks, that were decorated with blue shillings. Her king grandfather had charged builders to tear down the blue and erect a wine purple instead. The building had apparently taken three kings, each wanting to outdo the last in splendidness, before the last stone was set. Due to the changing of kings and builders and workers, there were many a staircase that lead to nowhere, a room where it was half the size of a normal one because that was now where a wall went. Everyone knew of the useless locations. Allison knew of the useful ones, the hidden ones.

She knew that if you went into the kitchens, into one of the wine cellars, all the way to the back, there was a false wall that held a staircase all the way down to the dungeon. She liked to believe that it was used to sneak food down to prisoners. Behind some tapestries in a nook in the library was a hallway that lead to a nearby room, likely for two lovers to be able to meet without spies noticing. She imagined a young princess, who had fallen in love with a squire, but her queen mother had forbidden it.

Allison also knew about a window, in the Great Hall, that had a thick and wide sill, which jutted out from the rock and moved up in a fashion to walk on. It ended right outside the current king’s rooms; a few rocks would slide across the wall into small closet that holds linens.

She had fuzzy memories of time spent with the former Princess Lydia, a girl two years her senior. Allison had been sent to the Martin castle when she was four as a ward of the castle and had spent the next year and a half toddling after the cool and collected princess. It was her that Allison had to thank for the all of the passageways. Doubtless, she would have found several on her own, for she had what her lady mother called a “perverse enjoyment” of heights. She would often go to one of the highest peaks on the castle, where a room sat alone. No one had used it for the way the windows were built made the wind fierce as it travelled through.

Allison loved to sit in its walls and look out the window to see all that was below. Or at least, that’s what she told her parents. Truly, she would step out onto the windowsill, clutching at whatever shillings she could to lean as far as she wanted out of the window. It was freeing to be so high up, and uniquely her own. Allison didn’t dare dart between the castle’s peaks, or even let go of the shillings until she had put a step into the room, for she feared she may fall. But for a slow and wide enough path, like the crawl up from the Great Hall to the linen closet, she felt no fear.

The linen closet was where she was then, holding her breath and hoping that the guards posted outside her king grandfather’s room not hear her. She had to shove some of the fabrics to the wayside, coming in through a false door to find the closet nearly overflowing.

Her prince father had told her over the morning meal that Lord Peter from the Hale Kingdom had come to treat and had arrived at their home the night previous. The business was apparently urgent enough to take a ship from one of their port villages and sail directly down to their castle, cutting his travel time in nearly a half. When she had expressed this at the table, her aunt, Princess Katherine, had jested. “Yes, unfortunate he came so quickly. I hear there’s so many things to see on the road rather than on the sail, like snow, and snow and oh? More snow.”

The closet had two doors – one that opened truly to the outside of her king grandfather’s rooms, and the other, a flap more like, at the bottom of the closet and so small she would have to wiggle through, opened to his rooms. Allison cracked the flap slightly to better hear the conversation between her king grandfather and Lord Peter Hale.

She had only been in the rooms once or twice, after King Gerard had conquered the castle. He had fashioned the rooms to more his tastes, with deep purple tapestries, a bed big enough to take up half his sleeping quarters, and silver trinkets and bobbles throughout the room. He also had mounted on the walls several of his more successful kills on hunts, those that had faces or paws left for him to stuff. His eating quarters were given a larger table, with silver-tipped corners. The chairs were made of dark wood, trees that were felled in Quivering Wood but they were the same types of trees that were sacred to the wolves of Hale.

Allison learned the last bit from Prince Scot, when he had come with his king father to discuss betrothal agreements. At the time, he had come straight from the Hale Kingdom to Martin to speak with them. Her king grandfather talked with them in his own rooms, which was a high honor. However, when Prince Scot had stepped into his eating quarters, his face had gone white and he was strangely quiet. Allison had feared that he had decided that he didn’t actually want to be with her, despite his previous letter that she had tucked away in her skirt.

After the discussion of the day, she had taken a walk with him in their courtyard. Her prince father walked a little bit ahead of them, playing the part of the chaperone. He admitted to her, in low tones, that the trees that Gerard used weren’t supposed to be cut, that they were special trees from the Mother Moon. While it saddened her that King Gerard had done something to offend her betrothed, she was secretly thrilled that he hadn’t tired of her.

There was always a bowl of fruit set in the middle of that table. The fruit changed from day to day, as they had plenty of variety in their fields. Some days it would be figs and berries and apples, and the next day would be oranges and pears. Allison doubted her king grandfather ate any of it.

She crouched low to the slit of opening of the tiny door. It opened into the sleeping quarters, so she would have to strain her ears to hear inside to the eating room. “… Your sister has denied my sweet daughter thrice over now, and you are surprised when I am less than thrilled to deal with you?” Her king grandfather’s gravel voice came through strong.

He was a stout man, tough in stature even in his old age. His skin had been sagging down his face for the past several years, making his cheeks look sunken. He had little hair on top of his head and all of it was white. While his eyes were green, he often spoke with his head tilted in such a way that shadowed his eyes and made them look black as coal.

“What my queen sister has done or hasn’t done should not reflect on my character. I am only a lowly lord, who must do what my Queen bids.” There was the sound of a chair scraping across the stone floor.

“And what does your Queen bid?” King Gerard asked.

“She wants me to come and speak reason to you. Wants me to ask that you either swap the man who owns the lands that touch our border or at least discipline the fool.” Allison had not seen Lord Peter since the wedding between his Princess Laura and her cousin Ian. It had been in the Great Hall, with large swaths of purple and green fabric falling from the ceiling and an entire band to play to for their merriment. There were seven courses, all large enough to feed the host of lords and ladies from both the Martin and Hale Kingdom. Allison remembered the desert, a steaming peach pie, with caramel sugar to make the fruit even softer and butter on the pie bread to make it break easier.

Lord Peter had been there, sitting next to King Conan. The two royal families sat on three tables at the front of the Great Hall, raised slightly from the rest of the court. The tables had been fashioned in a U, with Princess Laura and cousin Ian sitting in the middle of the middle table. To their sides did the rest of the families spill, with the Queen Talia sitting closest to her daughter and King Gerard sitting closest to Allison’s cousin.

Peter had drunk only one glass of wine, as Allison had watched, and yet jested in a cruel way she’d only expect from someone drunk. He most likely blamed the alcohol anyway when someone called him out on it. He unsettled Allison.

He had short, cropped hair that was a light brown with dusting of grey near the roots. He was one of the few wolves she had ever seen with wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, probably from the way that he smiled constantly. Lord Peter always kept a small smirk on his face, always tilted his head and eyed you like he knew more than you did, and even though you knew he did, there was nothing to be done about it. His eyes were the coldest, clearest blue that Allison had ever seen.

As he spoke to her king grandfather, in her mind’s eye, he held that familiar smirk on his face. She wondered how it made King Gerard feel. The conversation lulled for a minute, or they spoke too low for Allison to hear, she couldn’t be certain. “I would have thought that you may have acted the fool yourself, boy. Pretended that it was some understanding or attempted to lie and flatter us to a peace agreement.”

“I am well-versed in the manner of flattery, your Grace. I could spew sweet words at you all day if it would please you. Doubtless, you’d be able to tell which ones I meant and which ones were lies.”

“Aye, I could. But what would surely shock me is if any of your words were true.” Her king grandfather sounded cross. As of late, he always seemed to be. Their healers had said that he had begun to experience the aches and pains that came with an age as old as him. Allison was likely to believe them, since every meal he ate with them, he would grimace in his chair and leave over half of his plate untouched.

Lord Peter had a high laugh, one that sounded fake to her ears. She opened the flap a little further. “I have no doubt a man like you is well adept at rooting out liars. By nature of my profession, I also have that ability. But, unlike you, I don’t find I need my eyes for it most of the time. My senses, nose and ears, work better than that. They root out lies and fear, sickness.” He let the word hang between them.

There was another pause. Allison leaned closer to the small door, attempting to see with her ears. There was the sound of a chair being pulled out, and boots clicking across the floor. The heavy sound of a door swinging open, and she heard her king grandfather from the other door, the true door to the linen closet. She almost jumped out of her skin, thinking that he had found her out, but quickly realized he was speaking to his guards.

“I want you to leave us, immediately. Go down the staircase and let no one enter.” He commanded.

Allison shuffled closer to the small door, eager to know what King Gerard didn’t even trust his guards with. Unfortunately, it seemed that they had decided that now was the time for whispers, as if the topic was too great to talk at full volume.

She couldn’t hear from the linen closet, too far away from his eating rooms. But, if she could creep to his main doors, it was only a hallway away from the table. She could press her ear to the door and know. Allison already began to move out of closet, silencing her steps as she grew closer.

She lay her ear carefully on the oak of the wood. “I highly doubt wolf magic can cure what my healers can’t. I had them shipped all the way from the Republic, learned in the ways of magic and men.” Allison heard King Gerard hiss. She wondered if Lord Peter was attempting to offer to heal her king grandfather’s age ailments.

“You mistake me, your Grace.” Lord Peter responded. “I never claimed that our healers could fix your… predicament.”

There was the sound of a scuffle from down the stairs. Allison’s heart was in her throat, she wouldn’t be able to quickly, yet quietly, rush back to the linen closet. It was either stand here and be caught, or dart and be caught. She pushed away from the door as her aunt came up the stairs. She looked surprised to see Allison.

“My dear niece, what are you doing up here?” Aunt Katherine asked. She was a beauty, in all truths. A high forehead and the same narrow, straight nose that Allison had. She had green eyes like her king father, and hair similar to sand like her mother. Her lips were full, and always pink and her teeth were all white.

Today she wore a navy dress, with a swooping neck line. It had long sleeves and was made of silk to allow Katherine to stay cool. The cuffs clung to her tiny wrists, making the sleeves billow like a sailor’s garb. There was no trim on the cuffs, but the bottom of the dress and the neckline held the same vibrant orchid color. It seemed to glow against the dull color of the dress. She wore a simple, silver chain on her neck with a tear drop of amethyst hanging from it. Her hair was made up in one of the newest fashions of the court. Almost all of it was pushed up into two buns on the sides of her head, the buns made with navy cloth and had an orchid lace. Wisps of her hair were allowed to fall from the bun, to give her a less severe look.

Allison knew that her aunt was beautiful, and witty, and learnt. She also knew that she was cruel, in an awful way that tainted her personality. Allison suspected that was why she hadn’t found a match yet, but she didn’t dare voice her thoughts. It would not do for rumors of regicide to sweep along the lands with her corpse.

“Oh, Aunt Katherine. I had come to ask his Grace if we may make a small room up for Prince Scot to worship when he visits.” She blushed and averted her gaze. Allison could not hear noise inside the room.

Princess Katherine regarded her coolly. “Is that so? I would not have guessed your Scot was a devout man. Or wolf, I guess,” She waved her hand. Allison felt deeply uncomfortable at the ease at which Katherine was able to throw away titles. “What gods does he worship? The Three of Stilinski? Or the wolves’ Mother Moon?”

“I wasn’t sure.” Allison hedged. Her aunt laughed, a chilly sound but she pressed ahead. “I know that the wolves worship their goddess outside, so I was hoping we could build some figurines for the Three and give him a place of quiet.”

“When is he coming again?” Aunt Katherine seemed bored of the conversation.

“For the celebration of the day of my birth.” Allison stated, feeling a heat rise in her. She knew that she shouldn’t allow Katherine’s forgetfulness—willful or not—to upset her. “I’ll be fifteen come a month’s time.”

“Will he finally marry you then?”

Allison ground her teeth, fighting the urge to snap at her aunt. “It’s custom in the Stilinski kingdom to wait until the woman is sixteen, at least. We hope to marry on the next year, to lump the celebrations together.”

Katherine leveled a look at her that was equal parts unimpressed as it was pitiful. She thinks he means to leave me. Before Allison could respond, with her words or her hand, the door swung open and her king grandfather stood before them. He had donned a purple doublet, with a black coat over it. The inside of the coat was lined with fur, just as dark as the exterior. He wore black breeches, leather gloves and boots.

Before he spoke, he leaned down to meet his closed fist and cough fitfully. “What are you doing here, my darling granddaughter?” King Gerard had always treated her with kindness, and even now he took her cheeks in his hands, tilting her face this way and that. She kept her eyes to the floor while he looked his fill.

Allison only answered once he released her. “I had come to request a room be made so that Prince Scot might worship while he stays with us.”

King Gerard smiled down at her, humming from the back of his throat. “A gift for a betrothed for your day of birth? How truly selfless are you, my darling. Your Aunt Katherine could learn a thing or two from you.” Beside her, Katherine stiffened. While Allison knew that her king grandfather’s words were as empty as they were pretty, it did fill her with satisfaction for her aunt to be smarted over them.

“It is spoken even in the Hale lands how kind your princess is.” The soft words made Allison’s shoulders lock. From inside the rooms, Lord Peter peered behind King Gerard. “I am quite glad to know that the rumors held.”

He looked just like her mind remembered him. The only difference was the outfit – a deep green top with short arms, that’s hemline went past his thighs. He wore a pair of mossy pants too, a queer choice that somehow complemented his complexion.

Her king grandfather stepped aside to allow Lord Peter to properly greet the two ladies. He approached Katherine first, stooping to kiss her hand. He commented on the beauty of the amethyst around her throat. Afterwards, he turned to face Allison. She attempted to mask her hesitancy, but his smirk grew into a wide grin anyhow. She figured that he could probably smell the fear on her, could smell it and found it funny somehow.

She offered her hand to him, as was custom. Lord Peter held it gently, his palm so much warmer than she was expecting. As he stooped down to press a kiss to her knuckles, facing away from her king grandfather and aunt, he flipped her hand. The change in position made her feel vulnerable, exposed. Allison startled, attempting to pull her hand away. Lord Peter had an iron clad grip on it now.

He pressed his open mouth to her wrist, hard enough that she could feel his teeth. _He could bite right now, and there would be nothing that I could do. Could he change me if he so desired? Could he steal away Scot’s claim, steal away my throne, steal away my agency with a simple bite?_ Allison’s mind was a whirl. Lord Peter did not bite her though. He slid his tongue across her flesh once, warm enough to feel like a lick of fire and then stood back to his full height. He ran his hand along her wrist, most likely to get rid of the saliva cooling there.

Allison felt her heart pounding like war horses. She did not know how to respond, had never been taught the proper way to address a lord when he did… that. “The rumors were also that your princess was like a fairy tale come to life, with skin so pale and hair so dark. I can see what the people mean.” His voice was so soft, scary in a way that made her want to throw her hands up to her ears and block him out.

“Yes, she is quite a beauty.” King Gerard responded. “You can take one look at her and see how she was meant to be a princess.”

Lord Peter’s cold eyes swept along her, and _she still hadn’t said anything. Why hadn’t she said anything?_ “I can see that.” He turned back to her king grandfather, acting as if Allison was forgotten. “I was hoping that we could move on to lunch, however. As filling as it is to look upon your beautiful family, I’m afraid that it can’t actually stop my stomach pains.”

“Of course, where are my manners? I’ll send up some maids with our lunches at the moment.” He stepped inside his room, where a rope had been fashioned to be pulled and a bell, in the kitchens, would ring. It had been made when a King had become a cripple from his horse falling on him. He was quelling a riot at the time, and it is said that he ruled just as fiercely and unflinching after his legs stopped working. “I’ll also send a maid with you, Allison. You may have pick of the rooms, any which Lord Peter do not wish to stay in, to make up for your betrothed.”

Allison attempted to recover then, shaking her head slightly. “Thank you, my Grace.” She waited dutifully outside of his chambers for the maids to rush up with platters of food to amaze Lord Peter. On the outside, she appeared as much of a blank slate as she could muster. On the inside, and in ways that she knew Lord Peter could sense, she was trying to determine how she would respond to him. She could write Prince Scot about it, but he would ride here to fight Lord Peter the moment he read the news.

She would write to Prince Stiles about the issue. Allison had grown up with him, after Princess Lydia, after. They trusted each other, and she was gratefully when there was talk of betrothal, she was glad it wasn’t to him. He was so close as to be considered her brother, and she did not think she would be able to fulfill her wifely duties with him. She doubted he would be able to with her, either.

They had started writing when she had turned eight, and he was ten. Her king grandfather had decided it would do for her to make friends with other princes and princess. She had attempted to write to Princess Laura, but she hadn’t had time for it with learning how to be the next Queen and next alpha. She had tried Prince Conan, and while they still wrote of the fashions of the kingdoms, it had no substance to it. Also, it wasn’t as if she could write to the Hale heirs about their lord uncle being present.

Katherine swept in with the maids when the food arrived. Allison couldn’t keep the look of disbelief off of her face, and her aunt noticed. “My king father asked me to lunch, who am I to refuse?” She said in response.

Lord Peter, who already had a rose glass of wine in his hand, raised it. “Yes, it will be splendid to hear about something other than politics. A woman of your age and knowledge must have some tales to ease the boredom.” He smiled at her placidly. If he had noticed the dark look she had at the mention of her age, he did not comment on it.

The food that the maids set down looked splendid, enough to remind Allison she had yet to eat for lunch. There was a bowl of boiled quail eggs, with an assortment of cheese fanning out from it on the platter beneath the bowl. Another plate held tiny cups of stew, steam pouring off of it and smelling strongly of rabbit. There was a dish on one of the platters for greens. They were roasted and then dipped in some animal fat, to make them more enjoyable.

When the kitchen maids had fixed the platters, six in total, King Gerard waved to one and explained to her to follow Allison while she picked a room, and to have it fashioned for Prince Scot as soon as possible. She curtsied, with a clumsy, “Yes, your Grace.” Before she moved towards Allison.

Allison also curtsied when she took her leave, thanking her king grandfather once again. She knew the room that she would have them fix for Prince Scot, but first her stomach pulled her back to the kitchens. The maid scurried after her, saying nothing save for several quick gasps each moment. She seemed to struggle to keep up with her, so Allison slowed her pace.

She did not know who the maid was, probably some new one that came from one of the coastal villages. She had the look of a commoner, with limp hair and a squashed nose. Her cheeks were pit marked, and her lips were a ragged mess. The girl probably spent most of the day pulling the skin of her mouth and eating it. When she noticed that Allison was striding towards the kitchen, she let out a tentative, “My lady…?”

“I have a hunger, that’s all. Then we shall be off to the rooms.” Allison smiled at the girl. Her cheeks went a deep crimson and she cast her eyes to the floor. Allison knew of commoners who seemed to be awed when they saw her, shocked when she noticed them, but it had always made her feel wrong-footed. She turned back around, smile fading from her face.

The kitchens were a bustle during the day. The stone shone from where cleaning boys hurried to wipe it down after each prep that the cooks did. Her favorite cook, an old fat woman named Aspen, who always had a treat hidden for the young children, was standing at a pot of stew. She beamed when she spotted Allison. “My dear Princess, how are you? How have you been faring? How have you been enjoying the food – have you been eating? You look so thin.” Aspen waddled over to her while talking, the stew all but forgotten.

Aspen was her favorite even when she was not a princess. The old cook looked the same to her now as she did when Allison was five and standing in the kitchen with Princess Lydia to beg for a caramel apple. Aspen would tell them sternly, facing away from the head cook, that they would spoil their appetite. Her voice was sharp, but grey eyes twinkled with merriment. Even as she scolded them, her hands would reach into her skirts to give them a pastry. It had always delighted and astounded Allison, that no matter the time of day she came to ask for a sweet, that Aspen had one hidden away for her.

Allison stood on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on Aspen’s face. She was like a homely grandmother to the girl, what a grandmother should be in Allison’s mind. The old cook, whose cheeks were always inflamed from the heat of the kitchen, tittered and took her hands. The girl behind Allison squeaked.

Aspen looked at the kitchen maid sharply. “Lucile, what are you doing just standing there? If you have no work, then I’ll surely make some for you.”

Placing her hand on Aspens large forearm, Allison quieted her. “She’s helping me right now, if it’s alright with you. My king grandfather told her to help me pick out some rooms for a gift for Prince Scot.”

“Rooms for a gift for Prince Scot, eh?” Aspen grinned so widely that Allison couldn’t help but blush and chuckle. The cook was one of the people she enjoyed wholly, with no worry that she may try to placate or flatter her simply for her title. Casting a look at the kitchen maid, Lucile, she realized the poor girl looked like she may faint.

“Yes, rooms so that he might say his _prayers_.” Allison shot back playfully. “I was wondering if you had anything for me to eat while I went in search of such rooms.”

Aspen frowned, putting on a show of casting her eyes about the room. “Could you or would you carry stew in your palms? No. You ask when I have nothing for you, my dear Princess.” She sighed even as her eyes shone. It had been three years since Aspen had been made head cook, and yet she loved playing the game each time. “Come back in an hour, and I should be able to fashion some food fit for a lady.”

She went to wave her away, and for a moment, Allison thought she spoke truth. Her stomach dropped and clenched painfully. Then a slow grin spread across Aspen’s face, as her hand reached to her skirts. “Be gone, princess.” She declared loudly. “We will make you something when we have the time for it.”

A small, hard brownie found her hand. She clutched it and tucked it behind her. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” She dipped her head to Aspen, causing Lucile to gasp again, and turned to leave. Aspen dipped into a curtsy as she left.

“Come, Lucile.” She said. Allison broke off pieces of the brownie to nibble while she walked down the halls.

The kitchen maid stumbled after her, picking up her skirt to allow her to move faster. “Yes, Princess.”

Allison knew where she was headed now, to the left wing with the two-story library. She did not go inside the library, however. Instead, she veered to one of the few rooms on the same floor as the library. It was a small one, with only a sleeping area, but it did not need to be grand to fit some bowls to burn lights in and three figurines. Her stomach dropped when she realized how she was thinking of her betrothed’s religion, feeling guilty and wrong.

In the Argent Kingdom, and the Martin before it, religion was an option not tied to the crown. She knew of merchants who lived in their sprawling city that believed in the Three, that believed in the Mother Moon, and even a few that believed in Vatrya—a goddess worshipped by the shifters past the Cottleg desert. The Argent’s themselves took no part in worship, held no strong beliefs. One spring, her lady mother and she were traveling back from Quivering Wood and saw a procession of worship to the Three. They had been visiting Princess Victoria’s lady mother to pay their respects for Lord Kingston, Allison’s late lord grandfather.

The people were all garbed in white, man and women alike wearing dresses. She had been riding a horse then, having begged off her mother to allow her out of the carriage. Allison pulled the beast to a stop to watch them. They wandered through the wood next to the road, all humming deep and loud, carrying lanterns. Her lady mother had stuck her head out the carriage door, to see why they had halted and noticed Allison staring toward the display.

Her lady mother had allowed her to watch until the group moved further into the woods and all that could be seen was the faint glow from their lanterns. When they had stopped for supper, Allison asked Victoria about them. “The face of Spring is on the center of Life during this time. They would usually have their lights in their temples, but I think it’s a special day for them.” Victoria had shrugged and that was the end of the conversation.

Allison looked to the kitchen maid that had followed her. “I would like for the figurines to each have their own wall, but place none of the east wall. I fear that the tapestry would be ruined if smoke or fire were to get near it.” The tapestry in question was a beautiful, multi-colored picture of the Battle of Bener. Bener was a group of small islands that lay near Silverbloom and were often used as a resting stop from traders from the Republic.

At one point, some Republic men decided that Bener should belong to their country and laid siege on it. Silverbloom was unable – or in Allison’s opinion, unwilling – to send aide, and left Bener to defend themselves. The Republic had thrown harpoons and cannons at the Bener castle, attempting to destroy it from the sea. The tapestry depicted the turning point of the battle, when the Bener men had set fire to their ports to prevent the Republic ships from docking. Instead, the Republic men had to row in small ships to the sands, with few enough men per boat for Bener soldiers to cut them down.

When Allison gave her command, she noticed how Lucile smiled as she curtsied. It left her to wonder how many of the secret ways she thought only she was privy to that the servants knew. They were the ones who worked in the wine cellars. They were the ones who cleaned the stones of the castle. The servants had probably taken this tapestry down a thousand times to clean it, or she would have come here and seen the heavy dust on it. Even the secret ways usually held no cobwebs.

Allison dismissed the girl before heading back to her own chambers. She had taken up in Princess Lydia’s old chambers, as her king grandfather would have nothing less for her. They were pretty, with the stones inside the room bleached to Princess Lydia’s liking. Allison had a large bed, and a small eating room of to the left of the sleeping room. She had put an intimate table in there, made of glass and thin metal that was bent to look like flowers.

When Princess Lydia had resided here, it was used as a playroom. Allison remembered the small wooden horse with white hair that sat in the corner, and the tiny, wooden castle that dominated the room. Princess Lydia loved playing with it, but when Allison came around, she would sniff and say, “It’s pretty, but it’s not like the real castle. I bet the person who made this has never even been inside, it’s missing the staircase in the wall that takes you from the kitchens to Great Hall.” Allison had agreed, even though the actual hallways all looked like the real castle.

She had two handmaids dedicated to her alone. One was placing a small bowl of soup on her table when she came into the rooms. It had a lid on it, which the handmaid removed when she noticed the princess. The handmaid was her age, meant to make her forget about her dreadful lack of nearby friends. Her name was Essa and she had blonde hair, and a pretty enough smile. However, she missed a part of one of her front teeth. Essa had told that it had happened when her father came home drunk one night. It made Allison deeply grateful that her father hated the taste of wine.

“Thank you, Essa.” Allison said as the handmaid pulled out her chair for her, the girl ducking her head and retreating to the wall. The princess removed the lid and recognized it as the same soup that was served to Lord Peter and her king grandfather. And Katherine. It reminded her to compose the letter to Prince Stiles, and she asked Essa to fetch her a quill and two pieces of parchment.

On one, she wrote to Prince Scot. She told him about the weather, and her horse-riding lessons, and how excited she was to see him. Allison kept the letter light and when she finished, she poured some wax and pressed the Argent sigil to keep the letter unbroken. The sigil was a plum arrow head, but on fabric, the background was purple, and the arrow was silver.

With the other letter, she chose her words more carefully. She was made aware that her king grandfather, or at least his advisors, monitored her letters when she was ten. Allison had written to Prince Stiles to confess she missed Princess Lydia, and by the night, she was in a meeting alone with her king grandfather. He explained, gently, that her words could be reason for treason should anyone besides Prince Stiles read them. She had cried and swore that she hadn’t meant it like that, but it didn’t stop her from wishing Princess Lydia still was around. Her memory hung around like a ghost around Allison, casting shadows on everything she did as a princess.

So Allison, wanting to speak freely, had found a way around her king grandfather. ‘ _The wolves howl so terribly at night in the spring. I cannot wait until the mating season is over, for they keep me up. I rise in the morning feeling as tired as a sixty-year old woman. And they turn my dreams to nightmares. Last night, I dreamt that beasts wandered into the Great Hall and acted like lords. Except when it was time to exchange pleasantries, they ate me whole._ ’

She put no name or sigil on the letter. Allison would give it to Essa with the other, and if the letter was to be found, she would say that it was a journal piece that her hand maid must have mistaken for a letter. Essa may be punished for ignorance, but not for willing treason. Not like Allison would.

“Take both of these to the squire, Liam Dunbar.” She instructed Essa. Liam owed her a great debt. His mother was a wolf and had passed birthing him. When he began to exhibit signs of being a wolf like her, his father, Lord Dunbar, did not allow him to go to the Hale Kingdom. Her king grandfather also forbade it, and Liam spent many a full moon in the dank dungeons. Her heart was soft towards him, and she wrote to Prince Scot about his plight.

Within a fortnight, Prince Scot was in the Argent castle. He stayed for two months, and while Liam still had a terrible anger towards his lord father, he was able to keep his wits when in wolf form. In return, he had pledged his sword to Allison. She had chuckled, saying that only knights and soldiers pledged swords. But he had proven useful.

It was also helpful that Essa had a growing infatuation on the boy. The spies that littered the castle would only see a maiden giving a note to her heart’s intended. Allison didn’t have the heart to tell Essa that Liam would never marry her, for his father was a lord and hers was a fish merchant. Instead, she allowed her to blush and sigh whenever his name was brought up, peddle gossip about his activity from the princess and beg off to see him.

Liam would see that her letter to Prince Scot went on a royal bird, one of the ospreys they kept around in a large structure just behind the castle. It was fashioned to have several deep holes lining the walls that the ospreys may make nests in. Liam would see her other letter to the crows, a day before or after the other one. Crows were used by the common folk, for they were easy to feed and bred. They were intelligent, quick and cheap.

All Allison had now to do was enjoy her rabbit stew and wait for Prince Stiles advise on the subject of Lord Peter.


	8. Lydia

Mount Zendar sat on an island that was dwarfed from distance. Sovereign Parrish warned Lydia that only the Pawas, Alpha-mate, and Sovereign themselves were to set foot on the Mount. The rest would wait on the island, or if they were omegas that trailed the group, back on Cottleg sands. The omegas would mourn their inability to be near such a holy place.

They had taken small rafts, that could scarcely carry ten men at a time. Ser Whittemore was insistent that he ride with Lydia, should she have need of him. It was the first time she had been in a boat so shaky, in such deep waters. She clung to her seat and the shifters around her smiled, as if they knew how it frightened her.

The saltwater sprayed at her face, chilling her in the desert night.

Parrish had gone up before, to ask blessings and guidance from the mouth of Mount Zendar on his Alpha-mate, along with T’ara. Lydia was in a boat with his two other Pawas, Haigh and Vargas. While they traveled through the desert, Lydia had asked him of why the volcano was holy to the shifters.

She was riding a camel next to him when she asked him, her face wrapped in scarf. Sovereign Parrish walked beside her, holding onto her steed with his bare feet on the sands. He was quiet for a moment after her question, as he often was. Lydia could hear the pack behind them. There was the snapping and growling of the shifter’s tongue, something that the Sovereign was teaching her, and children laughing. Horses and camels spit and made noise, and there was the sound of a thousand sands shifting beneath two thousand feet.

“Mount Zendar is a lush oasis, full of greenery. The water there is fresh and cold. The trees hang heavy with fruit and there are a thousand types of animals. Little monkeys that hoot in the trees, and boars with tusks around their mouths. It is a paradise when compared to this wasteland. It is the birth place of Vatrya.

“When the shifters began to be sent to exile in the Cottleg desert, they had to form their own packs or go mad. It was the time of strong people willing themselves into being an alpha. Yet, they knew nothing of how to live in the desert, nothing of how to survive. They drove their packs south, to the sea. And on the edge of the sea, they saw what they thought was their grace.” Parrish went quiet again. The camel spit on the sands, it sizzled when it touched the ground.

“They created rafts out of the birch trees that scatter the desert. The alphas took their packs across the narrow channel and found refuge on the island of Mount Zendar. For a time.” He unscrewed the skin that set at his waist, pulling from it. As they moved through the desert, Lydia noted how the pack would stop at small pits of sulfur water, taking half and never more. It kept enough water for the Sovereign and her, and his Pawas, and Ser Whittemore and several others in the pack. She decided not to focus on what happened to the ones who didn’t get water. “Other Sovereigns, smarter alphas, warned them that it was folly to take a gift so sweet. That Vatrya slept in the volcano and kept the creatures on the island safe from the likes of men and shifters.

“And they wished for too much. The pools of fresh water began to run dry and the game became tiny and thin. These alphas had stripped the bark from the trees, and many began to wither.” The Sovereign was a wonderful story teller, though Lydia doubted that a few packs would drain a whole island. “Then Mount Zendar erupted, one night. There was a terrible storm and the volcano had been smoking for weeks. The Sovereigns in Cottleg say it was like Vatrya herself was weeping.”

He offered her the skin, which she took gratefully. She pulled down the scarf, and a few wisps of her hair escaped, shining in the sun. Parrish watched Lydia drink from his skin. It had only taken a week before Lydia did not mind the acrid taste of the water, grateful for how it soothed her cracked lips and cooled her body.

“The alphas on the island had no way to escape, for the sea was in throws from the storm, and the fire water crept down from the mountain. The creatures of the island seemed to expect it, or so they say, and hopped into small pockets of safety. The alphas, and all their packs, were swept under the fire. After a time, the fire water cooled and became black rock. Plants and animals grew over it, and Mount Zendar stands as bountiful as ever. But the Sovereigns of old found the bodies encased in the black rock of the foolish packs, and they have been displayed on the sands of Mount Zendar since then.”

His Pawa, T’ara, had been walking somewhat behind them. She leaned over to Lydia then, “It’s a warning.” Her human tongue was rough, disused. “A warning to not think all is for the taking.”

T’ara had not been shy is admitting how distasteful she found Lydia. A snap or snarl from the Sovereign would put her back in her place, but she still watched Lydia with suspicious eyes. She had been born in Cottleg, raised in the sands, and had even mistrusted Parrish when he had come to the desert exiles.

But Parrish grew strong and wild here, killing a Sovereign and gaining his power before he had seen sixteen years. T’ara followed, as was custom in the desert, and when he had reached twenty-and-one years, he made her his Pawa.

When the boat that carried Lydia arrived on the island of Mount Zendar, the jostle snapped her from her mind. She accepted Ser Whittemore’s help to ready herself on the sands. They were almost cool here, as night fell over the island. The water lapped at her feet, and for once she felt like a child, small and exhilarated from the simple beauty of the sea.

Lydia turned to gaze upon the island then, finding it as brilliant as her Sovereign said. It was hard to imagine that the foliage had ever not been so lush, that the animals she heard within the trees had once lost their homes. She noted how her pack was scooping water into jugs from the waves. They carried it to a cloth device, where they poured it over the cloth and into the basins below. The process repeated again and again and again.

Vargas touched her arm to guide her towards their camp. They had sailed at night, for fear that Vatrya would punish them if she saw them come to the mount during the day.

While Lydia did not believe that the goddess slept in the mountain, waiting to kill her followers, it was not an unfavorable outcome. The cool night air, away from the desert sands, allowed her to dress in a more desirable way. She wore a chiffon dress, lavender in color. It opened wide down her front and sides, to expose as much of her breast as was considered acceptable. It fell in pieces to her feet, allowing her legs to cut through the material if she stretched too far or the wind blew. It was tied to her waist, giving her figure, with a tiny gold belt. She wore nothing underneath.

There were gold sandals on her feet, thin straps and pretty, false jewels that were sewn into the back heel. She had placed her hair up on her head in a braid that encircled her skull like a crown. Wavelets of strands fell down from it.

Lydia had good reason to dress handsomely tonight. Vatrya was calm at night, and it was the only time that a Sovereign could approach onto Mount Zendar. If the goddess approved of their pairing, Parrish would come down here and take her tonight. When the new moon came, a sliver in the sky, they would climb up the volcano for the ceremony. The other Sovereigns would look upon their pairing, as would Vatrya, and the scent of his seed on her would assure the match was wanted.

If Vatrya turned her face to Parrish though, Lydia would be unallowed to stay on the island. She would be sent back in raft, thrown back to the sands. Ser Whittemore would see her home, or die trying, she had no doubt. Their hut waited for them, with her bed and their clay jugs.

Vargas lead her to the Sovereign’s tent, his tables and bed and basin already sat up. She looked at Lydia for a moment, before nodding and stepping out. Of all of Sovereign Parrish’s Pawas, Lydia enjoyed Vargas most.

T’ara distrusted her, and Haigh looked at her with cold, dead eyes while never once speaking. Parrish said he did not know the human tongue, so long had his family roamed the sands. Lydia thought that he may have lost the human mind, how flat his eyes were. He also never spoke in the Cottleg shifter dialect, which Lydia had learned was something different than how the wolves of Hale spoke.

Parrish had been helping her, teaching her movements for the words she couldn’t say. The growls grated on her throat, and her yips were whiny, but she persisted. Ser Whittemore watched them, helping her when the Sovereign would laugh at her and ride off to his Pawas. Most nights, she went to bed with a sore throat, but she now could say a simple greeting and would be able to say her words at the ceremony on Mount Zendar.

She had attempted the greeting on each of the Pawas, with T’ara watching her with cool eyes. She had responded in turn, and then said something that Lydia could not understand. T’ara made a mock-grin when she caught Lydia attempting to parse through her words. Vargas had greeted her back and attempted to get her to growl lower for the correct effect. Haigh had just looked at her, turning away when she tried once more, wavering. T’ara was ready to be rid of her, but she felt something more sinister from Haigh.

Vargas, however, looked at her with quiet understanding. She was the daughter of a different Alpha-mate, another human from the kingdoms, one whose Sovereign was killed when she was already a woman grown. Parrish killed the Sovereign that murdered her father, and Vargas had sworn her life to him since. She was the only Pawa that Lydia felt comfortable with on this night, one not to jeer or unsettle her mood as she looked to the mating bed.

The bed was made of furs, bought with shifter skin at ports by the Pawas. They were the only ones entrusted to go to the ports as they were strong and fast enough to escape poachers. The packs could not go as one, lest the young and old be taken. The furs were to be lain atop, soft on the skin, with a cloth blanket used instead for warmth.

Lydia settled atop the furs to wait for Parrish. She pushed her hands up through the blankets and underneath her pillow. There, her knife lay in to keep her peace of mind. The Sovereign and her had bed shared since the first night to allow their scents to mingle, though he never ventured from his side of the bed. The first week had been a difficult adjustment for her, nervous in a way she had never been. By the second week, exhaustion caught up and she slept easier.

It was during that first week that Parrish had noted her knife. She had stored it with her few precious belongings in a satchel. Her trunk could not be carried by camel, so Ser Whittemore had buried it someplace secret. Lydia had been turning it over and over in her hand, as she was to do when thinking, and he had spotted it.

“Why would you have a knife, when you have a kanima devoted to you, Lydia of House Martin?” Parrish had asked.

She stopped turning it then, “To protect myself when he cannot.”

“And you think that knife will stop whatever a kanima could not?” The Sovereign seemed to be laughing at her with his eyes. “Do you know how to use it?”

“Of course I know how to use it. You make sure that the other person gets the sharp side while you still hold the handle.” Lydia had responded, voice hot.

They had been in his room at that moment, and he at the table. Parrish rose from it then and had spread his arms. “Then come and give me the sharp side.” He challenged.

Lydia had rose to the bait but was stiff and awkward when attempting to touch him with the knife. It was not her intention to truly stab the Sovereign, rather to show him that she was capable. Instead, he dodged her neatly, pushing her wrist to the side or moving to the other direction.

Irate, she had lashed out in a wide arc, which Parrish stopped by catching her arm. “You hold it wrong to slice, you are holding it to stab. It will never work like that.” He took the blade from her hand and placed it down in the correct position. It did feel more dangerous the way she had then held it. She also felt more dangerous when he held onto her.

Each day they had done that dance, with Lydia attempting to cut him and him explaining to her how to move. She now knew that her skills were flimsy at best, but no longer non-existent. She pulled her knife from her pillow to think.

The night moved on, and Lydia turned and turned her knife. She was close enough to her home, even here in this tent on Mount Zendar, that she could taste it. Her plan was to appeal to the Sovereigns of Vatrya after their ceremony. Lydia was near certain that she knew what they wished for.

It was simple, something that those who were peasants and kings alike wished for. Food, water, safety. Each day she watched the pack huddle around sulfur puddles and cook salted fish and lizard to chew on throughout the hours. She noticed how they put sand in the bread to make it stretch further, how the pack traveled far and wide to collect millet, how they drank the milk of goats and camels and skinned cacti. How they collected rain water and spent hours to purify it.

Sovereign Parrish had warned her that the ceremony may not be the best place to rally others to her cause. She hadn’t wanted to rally others at all, until she realized that they would have to come all the way up the Sun’s road to the Martin castle. Many of the pack would die, and she had no way of determining if they would be a haggard, small group by the time they reached the castle.

Lydia had asked if not now, then when. Only on Mount Zendar would Sovereigns set aside their feuds; only here would they not attack simply for being in sight of another pack. He had said there would be a ritual to be done in four months’ time on the island, and then would be better.

She retorted that he would wait until a week before then and tell her that the holy time was no time to rally. He would push it off and off until she had settled into the ways of the sands and her castle was no more a memory – or even less, a dream. Parrish did not respond, and she did not speak to him for a whole day.

Even now, the argument lit a fire in her, but it was soothed by his response. He had waited until dinner the next day, bringing her a rare treat of sugar cane. He swore he would not stand in her way, whenever she chose to call for uniting. Whenever it was time to march to her castle, he would follow her as his Alpha-mate. For he was one with her and she was one with him.

_I will be one with him_ , Lydia thought. She had to keep the mindset, that their fire goddess would bless the union, that tonight he would come in and make them one. Once they were one, her will and his would be the same and her will was always to take back her castle, see that Gerard was killed and rule over the Martin Kingdom.

Parrish came back when the sky outside was pink on the edges. Lydia still sat on the furs, having not slept while she waited. Her knife hung loosely in her hand as they stared at each other across the tent. _I will be one with him_. Her heartbeat sped up as he stalked closer to her and she scarcely breathed. The Sovereign said nothing, just looked at her with his green, green eyes.

He stopped when he stood above her, when Lydia needed to tilt her face up keep his in sight. She dared not touch him. But Parrish squatted down to her level, his warm hand finding hers and plucking the blade out of it. It fell to the floor with a dull thud, the loudest thing in the room.

And then his lips were on hers, insistent and soft. His left hand fisted at her hair, pulling her head back and ruining the braid. Lydia opened her mouth to pant, his heat surrounding her, and he pushed his way into her mouth. She placed her hands on his chest, feeling the rise from his tattoos. His lips strayed from her mouth, down her cheek on her neck. Lydia shivered as gooseflesh raised along her chest.

The furs were there when she was pushed down on them, and she thought dizzily, _This is happening. This is now_. Parrish set his teeth into her neck, and she whined at the hurt. He licked the bruise, his right hand finding a hold beneath her thigh. Her dress shifted out of the way as he pushed it to her chest. Lydia grabbed at his shoulders, nails digging for purchase, as her other leg instinctually pulled up with its counterpart.

She closed her eyes, feeling overwhelmed and so, so warm. The sound of his pants giving way made her force her eyes open. Parrish had a low growl in the back of his throat, a constant rumble pressed to her chest.

The hand in her hair tightened, and she could feel him at her entrance. Lydia kept her hands where they were, focused on how her chest rose and fell. Pathetic sounds died within her throat; lips pressed close to prevent them from passing. Parrish gave no kindness to her in regard to her maidenhood, seating himself to the hilt.

Lydia’s body seized, the pain and fullness taking her breath away. Her mouth fell open and a small wail filled the tent. Parrish began to pull out, snapping back in and pushing her further up on the furs. He was snarling as he did it, his claws out and his eyes a fiery red. She pushed at his chest, held onto his arms and when the moment took her, would grasp at the furs. Lydia was certain he was ripping her apart to make room for himself.

Her dress was torn from her chest as Parrish placed her thighs on his shoulders. He used his claws to rip it from her, exposing her breasts. Sweat pooled between them even as her nipples hardened from the sudden cold. He kept snarling as he cupped one, shoving into her hard. Lydia finally realized what he was saying, a mantra of a phrase, “Like fire, like fire.”

Parrish’s face was pressed into her neck when he stilled. There was a moment where his whole body seemed to tighten, and then slammed his hips into her again once, twice, done. Lydia released her hold on his arms, the nail marks and red indents fading quickly. She lay underneath him, attempting to catch her breath while he kept his manhood inside her.

After a moment, he pulled off her. Instead of laying next to her, he watched her from above. Her dress was in ruin, seed stained towards the legs and the top shredded. Lydia began to shiver violently while he looked his fill, teeth chattering and body strangely empty. She shied away and closed her legs for a moment to warm herself.

The Sovereign pushed her legs back open, placing his hand at her entrance. The warmth was all encompassing and Lydia pressed back against it. She felt his fingers breach her. It was no longer painful, though it would not be truth to say it felt good. It felt queer. He appeared satisfied after a few thrusts of his fingers, leaning over her to kiss her once more. This time it was chaste and dry.

He fell asleep shortly after, sprawled next to her on the furs. The cloth blanket was tucked over his hips. Lydia fetched herself a robe, tightening its sash to keep her bosom in. She walked out of the tent.

Perhaps a month ago, she would blush at her daring to wear so little around so many. But she had seen all manner of bodies since then, naked men and women, old and young. The shifters cared not for clothing, wearing it only as protection against the sands. She passed by the tents, some of the wolves awaking early. Eyes followed her as she walked. Lydia knew they could smell Parrish inside her, the same as she could feel his seed trailing down her leg.

Ser Whittemore was nowhere to be seen, but he was around. Lydia could sense it and walked with purpose, without fear. When the new moon came, in less than two weeks’ time, she would be the Alpha-mate. None of the betas would dare lay a hand upon her, unless they were trying to coward challenge the Sovereign. The omegas would shy from her, same as they did Parrish.

The encampment was new to her eyes, with the leaves and trees surrounding them. The shifters did not look like strangers anymore. The children who woke and played were hers, as was the elders who mended the breeches and jerkins of the pack and passed down stories. Something had settled, and Lydia could even feel the shifter goddess, Vatrya, move through her and the island.

The sea glinted in a thousand fragments from the morning sun, rising steadily over the horizon. The sands shifted under her bare feet. The water lapped towards her in invite. Lydia dropped her robe and walked toward the waves. The water was cold, colder than anything she had in memory, and she did not shy away from it. _Like fire_ , she reminded herself what Parrish had said. _I am like fire._

The sea cleansed her, rose to her navel and splashed upon her breasts. Betas of her pack were on the sands, back with their jugs and cloth and basins. She paid them no mind, no longer feeling the need to hide her body beneath the water. Lydia pulled out the rest of her braid and allowed her hair to fall back down. It was long enough for the ends to swirl in the water.

Sunlight warmed her body, as she stood with her eyes closed in the sea. _We are one_ , she swore secretly to herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I know I'm a day late so to make up for it..two chapters!! My internet went out two days ago and we just got it back up. 
> 
> Next update will still be on 3/11.


	9. Stiles

It would be a lie to say that he was back in the forest for the atmosphere. Stiles had been plagued with thoughts of Prince Derrik since the last time they spoke, the elder prince an enigma to him. Oh, he had heard the rumors of the feral prince. Stiles knew of how Prince Derrik had apparently lost his mind when his paramour, Lady Paige Krasikeva, had died suddenly. There were whispers of how a ghost of a wolf would wander the castle, how Prince Derrik came back in fragments that didn’t fit quite well together.

Stiles thought they had the truth of it when he first met the prince, who had stood to the side of his family and rarely smiled. While he had noted the way each of the Hales regarded him, Prince Derrik had been strangely absent. Lady Erica probably thought him craven for rejecting the knife, Prince Conan saw all as a game, Lord Isaac attempted to woo him. Lady Malia seemed uninterested in either way, and each time Stiles had spied Princess Cora from her hidey holes, she would growl at him and dart away.

However, he had happened upon the prince a week previous, in the wood. He seemed more whole there, more open. Stiles noted the beauty in his work, and in truth, his appearance. Their conversation was the first where he felt like there was no hidden motive or was just a simple motion between pleasantries.

It was fresh air, and Stiles longed for it.

Stiles found Prince Derrik an hour after entering the woods. While it was a small forest, it was still a forest, and Stiles had no wolf senses. When he came upon Prince Derrik, he was propped up on his arms on the ground. There was a leaf in his hair, exposing him for laying on the ground.

“Do you take your inspiration from the clouds too?” Stiles asked. It meant to come as a jest and fell flat when he saw how Prince Derrik’s face shuttered for a moment.

“I take inspiration from everything.” Prince Derrik responded stiltedly. “But I’m not looking at the clouds today.”

Stiles crept closer to where he lay, noting his drawing book on the dirt next to his thigh. He had worn tough clothing today, ones that he borrowed from Scot’s chambers. The pants had grass stains on the knees and the shirt had a tear at the wrist. Stiles sat down next to Prince Derrik, laying on the bumpy, soft ground.

When he looked up, all he saw were tree tops and the blue sky above. Fluffy white clouds passed by at a slow pace. “Then what are you looking at?” Stiles glanced over at the elder prince to see where his eyes strayed, but Prince Derrik was looking at him.

After a moment, Prince Derrik laid back with Stiles. “The trees.” He admitted. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“The trees?” He hadn’t expected the trees to vary much from this angle, with only the leaves really in the picture. Stiles attempted to look at it in a way that he would if he was drawing, but there was no focus to his eye.

“The tree tops don’t touch each other. There’s a line, a crack of sky between each tree.”

Stiles saw what he meant, and while he had noticed it before, he assumed it was the same for all trees. He didn’t spend much time looking up in the wilderness. “Is that not how it is up in the Hale kingdom?”

He heard, rather than saw, the shake of Prince Derrik’s head. “The trees up there have stood there since before man, when only the wolves and Mother Moon looked upon the earth. The leaves are too big for them to worry about others.”

“Do you think all men come from the wolves?” Stiles asked.

“I know Mother Moon has stood in the sky for ten thousand years before me and will stand ten thousand years after me. I know She granted my kin the ability to shift when they fell in love with a hunter.” Prince Derrik said. “I know She has planted the trees in our groves and called to each of the wolves personally. Perhaps the first man was a wolf, perhaps he wasn’t. But Mother Moon has seen it.”

“If all men come from wolves, where did the hunter come from?” Stiles asked. Prince Derrik hmmed back in response. They sat quiet for a moment. “Do you know what Lord Boyd gave to me on the yester morrow?”

“A helmet.” Prince Derrik responded, quick and sure.

Stiles felt cheated, as if the joke was taken away. He laughed a short sound out of shock. “Do you know all the gifts?” Stiles lay his cheek in the dirt to look at Prince Derrik.

The prince gazed back at him; face closed. “Most.” He answered. “Besides, Boyd’s makes sense. It would not take a wise man to think you should wear something to guard against your clumsiness.”

Stiles thought of the other gifts that he had been offered – a book, though boring, from Lord Isaac. Any game of his choice from Lady Malia, or a helm from Lord Boyd. He was fairly certain that Princess Cora would offer her fist should he ask what she supposed to give him. Prince Conan had danced around him several times, saying hallo, or asking how he fancied the weather, the flowers, the food. It was never more than a minute, and each time the human prince would smile at Stiles like they had shared a secret. But he had yet to give him a courting gift. And then Lady Erica, trying to hand him a knife, perhaps to kill him.

“It’s true.” Stiles sighed. “I never grew into my height. At least you won’t have to see me on the dance floor.” Queen Talia had shot Queen Melissa down, firmly, when she had suggested a ball to welcome the Hale family’s stay.

“I never learned either.” Prince Derrik offered up. “I think my mother gave up with me and never tried with Cora. Laura can follow the motions, and Conan dances better than most can breathe. But I was angry during the meetings, purposefully ignorant and clumsy. My mother finally let me stop going to lessons, but it has helped me little in court.”

“I’m atrocious at court, I fear. I don’t hold my tongue, I can’t dance, and my compliments always seem to offend. In truth, I’d probably have been thrown from the walk if I wasn’t the prince.”

He heard Prince Derrik chuckle next to him. “That is something we have in common, then. I could never master how behave like royalty like Conan could. Half the kingdom probably wants me dead simply for the way I acted when Paige passed.”

The forest went silent with his words. Stiles struggled to find the right thing to say, and Prince Derrik tensed beside him as if he did not mean what he said or had not meant to say it. “When my queen mother died, I spent most nights in temple.” Stiles started. “It comforted me, to be close to Death, who was alleged to have His eye on her then. I was meant to go to her funeral, I was meant to show that I was a strong crown prince who could prevail over grief. I didn’t even speak to my king father for a month and I cried every day.”

“Is your Death kind?” Prince Derrik asked.

Stiles shrugged, a tight ball in his chest. It hurt to talk about her, Queen Claudia. He could imagine her even now, a smile on her face and him in her arms. “He just is. He’s inevitable, and I think, if He does care, He doesn’t have the power to stop the way people die. Maybe He’s cruel and enjoys drawing out the suffering. Or maybe He’s just a guardian, to guide others over.”

“They don’t talk about Mother Moon and humans dying.” Prince Derrik responded. It was easier to discuss the issue in the large sense, in a god sense. “They say when a wolf dies, She brings their soul back to Her. That you can see them in the moonlight.”

“That’s nice.” Stiles wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. They sat in stillness for a bit, and Prince Derrik picked back up his drawing book to sketch again. “What are you thinking of using the trees for?”

“I’m attempting to think of a way to pattern it on a fur.” Prince Derrik answered, sounding like he was leagues away from Stiles. “Or maybe have the pattern be a necklace piece.”

“What about a dress?” Stiles suggested, imagining one that had the pattern cut out of the skirt. “Like the over dress could be blue or white, and the under skirt could be green, and the over skirt could have it cut to pattern.”

The prince blinked at Stiles, his eyes focusing back on him. “I like the idea of two layers, with the top being patterned through holes.”

Stiles smiled. “Glad to be of help.”

\--

He had left Prince Derrik to his sketching after another hour or two of cloud gazing. Stiles went back to Gardens Watch, into his rooms where Lord Isaac’s novel— _A Voyage to the Northern Wastelands_ —sat on his night table and Lord Boyd’s helm, a shiny, silver one with a removable face piece. He touched the cold metal and looked out the window that sat over his bed.

Lady Erica was walking the gardens. She had sharp eyes and a sharper tongue, for all three times that he had spoken to her. He thought back to what Prince Derrik said in the forest, how it didn’t take a scholar to see he wasn’t sure-footed.

When he met her down in the gardens, she was coming around one of the walls. Lady Erica acted surprised at seeing him, a polite custom from the Hale lands. “Prince Stiles.”

He folded his torso in a half bow. “Lady Erica. Would you mind terribly if I join you on your stroll?”

She unfolded her hands out in front of her. “Not at all.” Stiles offered her his arm, as he was taught, and they wandered. He noticed how every few minutes, her nostrils would flare, and she would exhale deeply.

Stiles waited her out, not knowing what offensive scent he had procured throughout the day. Lady Erica managed two turns around the wall. “Pardon me if this is forward, but have you seen Derrik today?”

He blinked. Stiles had expected her to say that he smelled of cow dung, or rabbit liver, or perhaps just the lingering smell of grief. “Oh, yes. I did see him for a moment out in the wood.”

“What were you doing out there?” She looked keenly at Stiles.

“I wanted some fresh air.” He said, his heart thumping painfully. Stiles knew that Scot could hear when he lied, knew that wolves could smell and see falsities. “If we could speak plainly,” She quickly shot back an affirmative. “Why would you give me a knife?”

“It’s useful to defend yourself with.” Lady Erica replied. Her words came almost too fast, too practiced.

“You saw me trip and spill wine down my front while attempting to sit down, at Princess Laura’s wedding. What made you think I could handle that?” Stiles felt like he knew the answer, did not expect her to respond to it. He could even see the conversation coming to a close, her dropping his arm and excusing herself.

Instead, Lady Erica stiffened. “If we could speak plainly,” she started, “I was hoping you would not take me up on my gift.”

“You wanted me to say no.” Stiles confirmed. “Because you have your eyes set on another?” She nodded, close and guarded. He smiled and pulled them closer together. “Do I know them?”

“Perchance.” Lady Erica played coy. “But how can I trust that you will not run to him and tell him about my heart? I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Yes, you are as fierce as you are strong.” Stiles assuaged her. “Is there something you wish to know of me? I fear I’m rather an open book.” He had never had a paramour, never hated any of his family, never got drunk or naked in the streets, or had a fondness of torturing small things.

“Then flip to the page that tells me who you have set your eyes on.” Lady Erica said. Her grin was large and grew larger the longer she looked at him.

His mind immediately went to Prince Derrik, with his stubbled jaw and strong, deft hands and nameless color but somehow green-blue-brown eyes. It went to his soft chuckle and his sketches and the way he talked about his goddess. “Does my intended have to give me a courting gift for me to be able to consider them?”

“You can’t choose Laura.”

“I’m not.” Stiles said, heart beating hard. It may be a mistake to put his trust in her, but a secret for a secret kept them both safe.

She looked at him curiously for a moment, and then understanding washed over her face. Stiles had to wonder if every wolf expressed their emotions in their face when shocked, like Scot did. Lady Erica seemed to cycle through realization, giddiness, horror, and pity. He was increasingly familiar with the face of pity.

“Stiles.” She said it gently, without titles or flattery. It felt intimate, it felt personal. “Paige dying hit Derrik in a way that is rarely seen in non-mated wolves. I don’t know if he’ll be able to…”

“Okay.” Stiles responded, trying to ignore the emotions in his heart. One just sat there, saying okay, okay, okay while another snarled, denied that he had an infatuation at all or that it would hurt for Prince Derrik to turn away from him.

“I just want you to know,” Lady Erica continued. “In case. In case you have to pick someone else.”

He closed his eyes and nodded. Stiles willed for his heart to stop hurting, setting aside his feelings. “Anyway, I think our deal was that I would tell you, and then you would tell me.”

Lady Erica’s face turned to stone. “We’re in the same boat, unfortunately. I’m fairly certain that my paramour will never return my affections or know of them.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t tell me,” Stiles urged. “It’s not fair, you’ll make me think you can’t be trusted.”

“It’s Boyd.” She said softly, quickly. Nothing came after her statement.

Stiles was unexpecting of Lady Erica’s answer. “But he’s your—" he halted his words.

“My brother? My _adopted_ brother.” The bird calls sounded off the walls. “It’s not as if I chose to think of him that way, or that it is the same as Isaac. It isn’t.”

“It is,” Stiles responded. It was sad to point out. “Either he is your brother, and you’ve accepted him all these years as family, at which it is the same as Isaac. Or he is not, so he’s never been in your eyes, and it isn’t.”

She frowned at his answer. “I meant that if… If we were, then there would be no fear for our children.”

“Do you think you might?”

“No.” The answer was simple. “I doubt he sees me as anything more than a sister.”

“A sorry set we are.” Stiles said summarily. The Gardens Watch rose above the walls on their next turn, inviting him back to its walls and away from this conversation. “Thank you for indulging me, Lady Erica.”

“Erica.” She said, pressing her hand to his. After a pause, she pushed her cheek up against his. “Thank you for walking with me, Stiles.”

When Stiles made his way back to his room, a piece of parchment sat on the bottom of his bed. The elegant writing was obviously Princess Allison’s hand, but he did not understand why she would send a letter through the secret way now. He and she used it a mere handful of times, mindful of how her spies and his servants watched every bird.

The letter had no greeting, no signature. It spoke of wolves in court. Lord Peter, Stiles thought, recalling how his king father said that the Hale Lord was going to treat in the Argent Kingdom. ‘ _sixty-year old_ ’… Stiles had no doubt she meant King Gerard. Princess Allison was not aware that he knew of Lord Peter’s happenings.

“Acted like lords, and ate me whole?” Stiles murmured, reading over the last bit. Did the princess mean to imply that Lord Peter bit her? Surely, she knew that as a beta, he could not turn her. Or perhaps, that was not the worry.

He set his quill to parchment, to tell her that she should keep her distance from Lord Peter. That he was a sheep in wolf’s clothing, and that she would be safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know i'm so late and please forgive me. I've been feeling really under the weather. I got a COVID test today and here's hoping its not that, but I literally haven't been able to get on for the last several days.


	10. Allison

Prince Scot was to come today and Allison had been in a flurry since she woke this morning. She had Essa dress her in a dress that had a pattern of flowers. It was one of her bests, one that took the seamstress months to fashion as it had all manner of colors on it. There were no sleeves, but the neckline was modest. The back was hemmed in such a way that it made a giant oval and connected back above her tailbone. She wore a sash on her waist, a pretty blue color that tied into a bow.

Allison had wanted to wear her hair in the new fashion, with a cloth bun, but her roots had begun to show their true color and so she had had to set coal to it again. For the next few days, it was to be tied up in a braid that was curled into a bun. Some of her thinner, smaller hairs were allowed to fall from it since they would not touch and stain her clothes. She wore sheep skin slippers on her feet, and a touch of reddener on her lips and cheeks.

She had spied out her eating quarters window, several times throughout the ordeal of making her presentable. Allison wondered what Prince Scot would wear, wondered what he would say to her. Would he kiss her hand? Would he take her for walks? And on her celebration, would they dance?

They hadn’t seen each other in almost a year but remembering the kind prince’s face made her whole body light up. He had a strong brow and jawline, with lips that always held a smile for her and gentle eyes. They were the eyes of a forgiving prince, one who was always ready to be generous. She knew that he was all that a prince should be – strong, yet tender; beautiful, yet gracious; brave _and_ capable.

And he was sworn to her, and somehow loved her. Allison’s eyes strayed to out the window again, to the castle walls and the road that looped around the outside fountain. It was where he would come through, perhaps on a horse, pulling it up next to her and smiling down at her.

Essa made a noise, pulling Allison a different way while working on her make-up. Had he gotten her letter before coming? Did he keep hers, like she did? Prince Scot had sent a bird to them less than a week ago, saying that his party was expected today, but he had said nothing of her. “Do you think he’ll be here today?” She asked Essa distractedly.

“His letter said he would be, princess.” Essa assuaged her.

Allison shook her head. “Yes, I know what his letter said, but what if it was wrong? It’s already midday, what if something happened to them?”

“No one would touch Prince Scot.” Essa said. “He will be here before night fall, I’m sure.”

“Yes, of course you’re right.” Allison worried. “But what if he changed his mind, what if he decided to head back home?”

“Why would he do that? Has his letters been less than happy with you? Have you been less than happy with him?”

“No,” Allison started.

“No,” Essa responded firmly. “So, he’ll be here. Just wait and see.”

Allison attempted to take her words at heart, spending the next hour stitching a pillow. It was already finished, though she could add more thread to fill out the tiny, empty holes. It was a grove, a tree on a grassy hill. It was to be a gift for Prince Scot. Allison had read that wolves noses were strong enough to tell one person from another, and though she turned scarlet thinking on it, she hoped he would sleep with the pillow. That it would be as if she was laying there next to him.

After an hour passed, her leg had begun bouncing and her hands were unable to keep the line. Her eyes strayed to the window again and again, and she had to hold her hands beneath her skirts to keep from biting her nails.

She took her lunch in her rooms, setting the plate of greens and meat onto the windowsill. Allison envisioned her betrothed in her mind’s eye, pulling out old letters and going over them again.

‘ _At night, I look up to the sky and see the twinkle of the stars. How it reminds me of your eyes…_ ’

‘ _The winter flowers bloomed today. It was almost too cold to go outside, or even move, but I would do so to glance at their beauty. I hope to show them to you someday, so that you may see something as lovely as yourself…_ ’

‘ _Stiles and I are off to the sea, before autumn comes and the waves chill. How I wish you could join us, for it will be a marvelous journey. I find myself wondering time and time again how you would respond to the Jade Bay, to the people between that we shall meet. I know you are kind, in all aspects, and proper and good and it fills me with joy to think on how you would alight our people’s hearts, as you have done mine_.’

Prince Scot would end each of his letters with his signature and a small heart. Whenever she looked on the inked image, it would make her entire chest feel as if it was swelling to burst.

In truth, it was exciting to have him here as he would be certain to take her mind off Lord Peter. The man had taken most of his meals private, with her king grandfather, and she didn’t know what was spoken behind closed doors. Essa told her that southron villages were still being cut down, as was told to her by squire Liam, as was told to him by his knight, Ser Hollingsworth, who was told by a good friend.

Allison hadn’t risked spying in on their conversations since the first time, as she felt cold and shivery whenever Lord Peter looked at her. To be close to him again would surely have some consequence, whereas she was safe when he was half a garden or hallway away. Prince Scot could also act as a shield, so that she may continue on with investigation. Either way, she would not be set up against her Aunt Katherine, her king grandfather and a wolf of a Lord with only a handmaid and a squire as her only defense.

The day passed slowly for her, and when dinner came with no sign of the prince, her princess mother called her to sup with her. Allison loved her princess mother, in truth, but she kept an arm’s distance from her. She knew that she could trust her prince father—a distant memory of him protecting Princess Lydia made it so, despite a closely timed placement of a knife to her throat. But when it came to Princess Victoria, her loyalties could not be said for anyone besides herself.

Her princess mother was prim and more proper than Allison could ever hope to be. The air she exuded was elegance, with a raised chin and eyes that looked down upon others. Princess Victoria was always fully dressed in finery, with her hair up in a tight bun to keep it out of her face, and a face of make-up. She wore necklaces and rings and earrings with each outfit, had a specific set for each dress.

The meal passed quietly, as most did. Princess Victoria rarely took her meals with the whole family, would eat privately with her prince husband or with Allison. It was clear why to the younger princess, when looking upon her. Princess Victoria was the cousin of the late King Josiah, married into the Argents to ensure alliances stayed strong between the two families.

She had the appearance of a Martin, with the clear, green eyes and bright red hair. Allison saw the way that her king grandfather followed Princess Victoria with his eyes, knowing that she was the reason the people allowed him to secure the throne. Afterall, she was the only Martin who was still alive.

But the look haunted King Gerard, Allison could tell. He was as uncertain as Allison was as to where Princess Victoria’s true feelings to the Argents coming to power lay. Once or twice, Allison thought to ask, but the shrewd and calculating look in her mother’s eye stopped her.

It was almost time for bed, for her to have Essa help her remove her clothes and wipe the reddener from her face, when shouts were called from the garrison out front. She could hear the thud of hoofbeats and trumpets ringing out that Prince Scot was arriving. Allison whirled to Essa, a Chester cat grin on her face. Her handmaiden made a shooing motion, and Allison was off.

There were two sets of stairs between her and Prince Scot, but if she took the banisters, she may be standing at attention when he came riding in. The rails were a smooth oak, shiny from a recent polish and they were quick to slide down. Allison stumbled over herself after getting of the second rail and laughed as she fixed her skirts and hurried outside.

She was standing out next to the fountain when the first sets of horses came in. There were knights in their gleaming armor, with squires scurrying next to them. A few men wore doublets instead, the rich red of the Stilinski kingdom with a gold hem line. The colors dimmed in the night time, their faces cast in shadow from the torches they wielded.

Despite the face being shadowed, Allison knew when Prince Scot rode in. He wore less elegant garb, a thin, crimson shirt and tan breeches. He also wore no shoes, the balls of his feet gripping at the stirrups. She looked up toward the face, catching the gleam from his teeth in his smile.

“Princess Allison,” He greeted, sounding as breathless as she felt.

Allison dipped into a curtsy as he dismounted. One of his knights handed him a torch, bringing the rest of him into focus for her. “Prince Scot. Thank you for coming to visit.” Her heart was a hummingbird, young and aflutter. _And he can hear it_ , she thought.

“Thank you for having me.” He responded. She stood up from her curtsy, and he offered his hand. Allison placed her hand in his, so warm, and watched as he bent to kiss her knuckles. The press of his lips made it hard for her to breathe. “You’ll have to forgive the late entrance; we were held up at the crossroads.”

Prince Scot smiled at her, his cheeks reddening. Her hand was still in his and they stood there, staring at each other. There was a cough from one of his men. Allison pulled her hand from his, tucking them both behind her back. “There is nothing to forgive. The servants have made up rooms for you and your men, so that you may rest after your travel.”

“That is most appreciated, my princess.” Prince Scot said. He took her arm and she led them to the castle. None of the rest of the royal family had come out due to the late hour. But the maids stood in the entrance, ready to take each to their rooms.

One came to collect Prince Scot and Allison had to remove herself from him. Before he turned to follow the young girl, he looked to her. “On the morrow, I would love to take you on a stroll through the gardens. If you permit me, that is.” She had to bite her lip to keep from squealing. Prince Scot was so proper, so gallant.

“I shall look forward to it.” She agreed.

\--

Allison’s prince father was the one who played chaperone on the walk. He walked several feet ahead of them, far enough that their words were their own.

“How was breaking fast with King Gerard?” Allison asked Prince Scot. She had hoped to share the morning with him as well, but Essa had informed her that her king grandfather had commanded him to his eating chambers.

Prince Scot shrugged. “It was fine, though we did not have much to talk about. He asked after my king father, and my queen mother. He asked about Stiles and how I was handling my wolf.” It all sounded above boat to Allison. Prince Scot looked toward her prince father, judging the distance. “I actually wanted to discuss something about Stiles with you.”

She had yet to receive a letter in return to her own from the other prince. Allison leaned closer on to his arm. “He is in process to select one of the Hales to wed.” Prince Scot confided.

“Have you seen our guest, Lord Peter?” She asked in response. It felt connected somehow, though why would Queen Talia send her brother to fix a problem here, when a marriage a kingdom away could resolve it?

He shook his head. “I had not realized that Lord Peter was here.” So, Stiles probably didn’t know about him either. She wondered if her letter was too ambiguous then, if he would question the wolf’s name which she wrote about. For a startling second, she was deeply concerned that he would think she spoke on Prince Scot.

“Is everything alright?” Her prince asked her, dipping close to her face with worry. She noted how his nostrils flared.

Allison shook her head to rid the worrisome thoughts. “Of course,” She responded. How could everything not be alright with him right next to her? “But why would a betrothal between them happen now?”

Marriage proposals happened young, and Allison would know. She was barely a girl of twelve when promised to Prince Scot, who at the time, seemed so mature and graceful. She still thought of him that way now, but she was growing too. Soon, she would be grown enough to be his bride, his mate.

Prince Scot hesitated. “I shouldn’t tell you this.” He shot a glance through the gardens, at the walls of bushes and the castle behind them. At her prince father, idly strolling ahead of them. “Do you know what King Gerard is doing at the southern border of the Hale Kingdom?”

Now it was Allison’s turn to be wary. She didn’t have the eyes, ears, or nose of wolf. She couldn’t tell when one of her king grandfather’s watches might be waiting around the corner. “I know of it, yes.” She whispered back.

“That is the purpose of the betrothal.” Prince Scot said. The words stilled her mind, as she thought of all the things a marriage proposal between the Hale kingdom and the Stilinski kingdom could accomplish.

She looked at Prince Scot then, fear seizing her throat. If there were war between Hales and the Argents, where would the Stilinski lands fall? What would happen to her and Prince Scot? “Do you think your king father has plans to dissolve our—?” Her voice choked off.

Prince Scot placed his hand on hers, where it clutched at his arm. It was soothing for him to care so much about her fears. “My king father knows how I adore you. I do not think it is the intention to stop us wedding.” He got a serious look on his face then, one of determination that reminded her of knights of old. “And if it was, I would wait until we could be together again, for a thousand years.”

“A thousand years.” She echoed back, feeling her whole face engulf in fire. The wind could not cool her heat. Allison pressed her cheek to his hand in a moment of pure daring, her heart beat skittering as she did this which was very not allowed. “But why would Lord Peter come here if…?” She wondered aloud.

“Perhaps Queen Talia wishes to ensure all possibilities work out.” Prince Scot suggested.

But it didn’t sit right with her. As the way her king grandfather goaded the southern border, as Lord Peter and he held private meetings, it felt as if something more was occurring. Allison felt as if her eyes were just out of focus when it came to what was truly happening. “Perhaps.” She responded absently.

Why would Lord Peter be sent here, when King Gerard would kill him should he find out about Queen Talia’s other work? Why would Lord Peter agree to come? What were they hoping to gain from this encounter? What was her king grandfather hoping to gain from his little raids? The questions swirled around, making her head hurt.

“I wanted to let you know I have a gift for you.” Allison said.

Prince Scot laughed then, “It is your celebration, and I should be giving gifts to you.”

“It is something small.” She insisted. “I had them fashion up a room for you, to worship the Three of Stilinski, if you wish. The servants will leave you alone there.” Allison pitched her voice lower, aware of how much the open air seemed to still. “And I have a secret way in, so we can discuss these issues in private.”

Prince Scot cycled through his facial expressions then. At first it was happiness, a soft smile for her generosity, then scandalized excitement at her admitting they could be alone, and finally understanding. “I would hate to inconvenience you, or cut our time together short, so tell me when you are otherwise preoccupied and that is when I will pray.” He said in his full voice. “It is a marvelous gift, so well thought. Thank you, Princess Allison.”

Her prince father turned to look at them, catching how she smiled up at Prince Scot. It looked all innocent, which was the point.

When they had to split off for a time, as Prince Christopher had a meeting to attend, and Prince Scot had to speak to his men, Allison went back up to her rooms. Essa was waiting there, with a bath already drawn. She allowed her handmaid to undress her, helped her unbraid her hair and let it fall down her back.

The water was steaming when she entered the pool. Essa tended to her hair, gathering up the bathwater in a jug and running it down her scalp. The water turned only grey with the coal pitch of her hair, meaning that most had taken, and it was safe to use soap once more. As her handmaiden began to scrub in earnest, Allison had a thought.

“Essa?” She asked. “Could I trouble you to spend some time with Liam Dunbar?” Allison knew it was no true trouble, but it would make the girl more pleasant to the task.

“Of course, my princess. May I know why?” Her hands had stilled for a moment, and even with her eyes closed, Allison could hear the girl’s breathlessness.

“On my walk today with Prince Scot, we talked of battle. He is still green, but he imagines that one day he will be an excellent swordsman, able to protect his people.” Allison saw him as that now, strong and sturdy, and so young. They were both so young. “But I told him we kept each battle log from every war the kingdom had, with how each battle man faired. I was hoping to show it to him, but I have no reason to be at the barracks, or in their libraries.”

There were several small croppings of tiny castles in the woods around the castle and its city, where many knights and soldiers lived. Inside the small castles were rooms to eat and sleep and bathe and read. She knew that her king grandfather’s battle logs were there.

“I will ask Liam on the matter.” Essa promised her, bringing the jug back up to clean off her hair. Supper was still to be had, but Allison was ready for bed in that moment.

After Essa helped her dry off, she bid the handmaid a good night, and sent her on her way. Her bed was cool, large and soft. Next to her head was the pillow she stitched for Prince Scot, which she would give him tomorrow.

A moment of madness took her, the idea of tucking the pillow between her legs and finding pleasure on it. Allison couldn’t imagine that Prince Scot wouldn’t be able to tell what she had done, how she had rutted against it and then _gave it to him_. She even had her hands around it, clutched deep into the material as her heart beat wildly and the place between her legs grew damp.

She pulled it close to her chest, breathing deeply at the idea. Her body sang with the idea, her heartbeat in between her legs so strong was the desire. Allison instead placed it beneath her head, taking the pillow she slept on and tucking it under her. She buried her face into the gift, gasped and bit into it as she released. Her hair stuck to her face in sweaty tendrils, and Allison wondered what he’d smell on it then. Just her sweat, or her desire too? Her heart seemed to beat outside of her body, shaking her whole frame as exhaustion took her.

\--

The days passed in a blur, spending hours having lunches and walks with Prince Scot. Watching the way he blushed a brilliant red and bit his lip when she gave him her second gift, promising it was the last. Today was the day of the full moon, and her prince had taken to the wood to burn off energy.

Essa had come a day prior, saying that Liam was finding what she desired. She thanked her handmaid, waiting to give the signal to Prince Scot. They could examine what they each knew in his temple, but her mind strayed to what else they could do alone in that room. Each time she thought those dirty thoughts, she felt guilty. Just because she did not follow his gods did not mean that she shouldn’t show reverence in their presence.

But today, she was alone. Allison wandered the halls, looking out the windows to the heavy, dark clouds. The air tasted oppressive and humid. Most of the court seemed to agree with her, electing to stay locked up in their rooms or away from the open-air windows.

Allison was thinking on what would become of her and Prince Scot should war happen. She wondered if she could escape with him back to the Stilinski kingdom, and if it made her a coward to hope she could. It was curious that she was willing to leave her family, except taking her prince father and maybe, maybe her princess mother. Would Queen Talia allow her leave, and what would become of the throne? Would the Hale lands grow, and if the Argents were to win, what would become of the traitor Allison Argent?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a quiet cough. Allison felt her body jump, breath leaving in shock. She whirled around to see who had snuck upon her, expecting to feel relief, and instead more fear when she spied Lord Peter. Her eyes looked past him, to the other end of the hallway, noting how no one was present.

“Lord Peter,” She said weakly. “I had not expected you.”

“My apologies, I was not trying to frighten you.” _Liar_ , she thought. He wore a purple shirt, looking every bit in place with her family. Lord Peter smiled down at her. “I was hoping to find you though. I would very much like to take a walk with you.”

Her heart beat went soft for a moment, before it began thumping painfully. “Oh, but it looks as if it is to rain.” Allison protested.

Lord Peter peered out the windows, as if he had not noticed the weather. “I promise to not take long. The rest of your family has been so hospitable to me, and it pains me that I feel as if you have been avoiding me.”

She could hear the threat in his words. How unwelcoming she had been, how she had snubbed him, and how her king grandfather would hear about it. Allison would be brought before him, and he would hold her face in his hands and put pressure on her ears while he spoke on etiquette. “I would never wish to appear so standoffish.” Lord Peter’s smirk grew into a grin. Allison knew that it wasn’t a lie, and it probably delighted him that she could use words to hide falsities.

He offered her his arm, and she took it after a moment. Allison held it lightly, his heat more sweltering and aggressive than Prince Scot’s warmth. In her mind’s eye, she thought of their last encounter and could distantly feel the press of his teeth on her. Lord Peter led her down a staircase that opened to the east gardens. He walked with purpose, which allowed her a few minutes to reorient herself.

“How have you been enjoying Prince Scot’s visit, thus far?” Lord Peter asked her as they passed a bush full of tiny white blooms.

“It has been good.” Allison responded. She struggled to keep her voice light. “I am always happy to see him.”

“It is a good match then?”

She bit her tongue for a moment, feeling incredibly angry for little reason. Even with her distaste towards the lord, his question was not particularly provoking. “Yes, I believe so.”

Lord Peter hummed, turning them down another walkway. The stairs are all but out of sight, and the bushes make it where she can only see the peaks of the castle. “That’s good. My late wife, Lady Margaret, and I were a terrible match. Perhaps that’s why I found our seamstress to be so delightful.” He sighed. Allison felt slack-jawed at the casual way he discussed his affair. “But I’m getting lost in memories. Prince Scot is a good boy, and Mother Moon knows how much my family loved him. He never liked me, though.”

Allison made a questioning noise in the back of her throat. Lord Peter turned them again, walking back towards the castle. The clouds lit up with lighting in the distance. “Yes, I could never figure out why. I was perfectly cordial to him. But some wolves’ instincts can make them hostile to others, without a clear reason why.”

_You’re a slime._ Allison thought, _That’s reason enough_. “I personally think it has something to do with the senses. Everything is heightened in a wolf, sounds, sights, smells. I find my rooms here beautiful and lavish, yet hard to sleep in. I can hear the rats skittering in the cellars, and the birds cawing on the rafters.”

The bottom of the sky opened, and fat, heavy summer rain fell upon them. It was cold and Allison attempted to shy from it, but Lord Peter kept her hand around his arm. “So, I have a question, princess. If I can hear all that, in my rooms, what do you think I can hear when I take sup with your grandfather?”

His other hand moved to her face, grasping her jaw and forcing her face to move. She recognized where they were, the thin line of stone from the Great Hall’s expansive windows up the tower. From this angle, it looked the decoration, one that would never be wide enough to hold a body.

“Do you think I couldn’t hear your heart, or the way that the linens shifted when you crouched, or how that little door opened to spy?” Her heart betrayed her now. She couldn’t move her face away from where he had put it, and he began speaking directly in her ear. Allison wanted to break away, but Lord Peter had the unnatural strength of a wolf.

“You make a pretty bird, princess. Like a raven, with that black hair and those smart eyes.” His fingers dug in and Allison made a pathetic sound. She wondered if anyone was watching, if there was a lord or lady peering from their windows, or a servant passing by with a message. She wondered if she screamed, would someone come running? Or would the thunder drown her out? “But not a pretty rat. I’ll ask you nicely to stay out of the walls.”

Her dresses were soaked through, and her hair was a mess. The bun had become soggy, the cloth drooping and her hair began to run down her neck. “It’s these pesky ears of mine, they’ll be able to hear. Oh, and in case you think to tell Prince Scot, here’s a reminder that he’s as much a wolf as me. And we wolves can be oh, so territorial.” Lord Peter pressed his face against her neck, and she felt her stomach bottom out. Allison was certain that her terror was making her light-headed. His tongue pressed against a chord of muscle along her collar.

“The rain will make it like we never spoke.” His words sent up gooseflesh along her neck. Allison’s body shook from the chill. “But should he know, I doubt courtesies would prevent him from attacking me.”

Lord Peter pulled away from her, smiling like he knew she wanted Prince Scot to attack her. His hair was dropping into his face, rivulets of water running down his wrinkles. He released her from both his hands, and she took several steps back. The rain fall was so loud that she struggled to hear his last words. “He can attack if he wishes, but I highly doubt your family will enjoy the slaughter of one welcome guest by another, especially when the corpse is an allied prince.”

He did a mock bow then, and Allison watched him stride out of sight. Instead of walking into the castle, he walked to the woods that surrounded them. When she could see him no more, she picked up her skirts and went back to her rooms. Halfway there, her slippers began to slip along the marble floor, and she had to take them off. Her skirts became too heavy for her arms and she allowed them to drag behind her and leave a wet mess.

Essa was there when she returned, removing her bedsheets. She took one look at Allison and gasped. “What were you doing out in the storm? You must be freezing, my princess. I will call someone to fetch you a bath, let me help you out of those sopping clothes.”

Allison let her man-handle her into nakedness, shivering all the while. Being naked felt warmer, but the chill was coming from inside her chest it felt like. It felt like pure fear, like she had been high up and was coming down quickly, and even the bath did not completely take it from her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's next chapter!
> 
> Does anyone have any good series to get sucked in that will take, oh, about 10 days to binge?


	11. Lydia

The mouth of Mount Zendar was wide, with a thick lip. Lydia stood on the edge with Sovereign Parrish and looked into the swirling mass of liquid fire below. His Pawas, T’ara, Vargas and Haigh, stood off to their side. She dressed loosely today, with another chiffon dress that cut her figure into a scandalous shape. It was gold this time, and the red that came from inside Mount Zendar coupled with the wind, made it look like she was wearing flames.

Her hair was loose, except two thin braids that went from the sides of her forehead to join on the back of her head. She wore her golden sandals but could still feel the heat from the shiny, black rock. On other sections of the lip of Mount Zendar stood Sovereigns. Some stood beneath the mouth, on the cliff that rose the volcano above the island.

Parrish had explained to her the placement of the Sovereigns and their Pawas was due to hierarchy. Those who did not stand at the lip had not earned a place to be seen by Vatrya. Lydia’s Sovereign was a high alpha, one who always had a place at the mouth, and who only would bow to few other Sovereigns.

She saw them on the lip, as Ser Whittemore had explained to her who would be up there. He had gathered intel from their pack and taught her what to expect to see. There were two Sovereigns that were younger than Parrish and only were above him by the merging of their packs. Sovereign Aiden and Ethan held the look of a more southron born shifter than the Hale lands, twins and hell hounds.

Above them in rank was Sovereign Kali and Sovereign Ennis. Both were older than Parrish, and meaner by the looks of it. Neither had shifted back into a more humanoid form since Lydia had laid eyes on them. They were mates but would run through the sands with their packs separately. Kali looked to be from the Republic, and rumors were that she roamed the Cottleg simply for blood sport as a were-jaguar. Ennis was a kanima, Lydia could tell from a look at his half shift. She had seen Ser Whittemore in that form many times, knew where the scales would lay and how the claws took on a yellow sheen.

Finally, sitting as the Alpha of Alphas, coined Vatrya’s Sovereign, was Deucalion. He was the oldest Sovereign Lydia had seen on Mount Zendar, blind from a Borrak long ago. His pack was at least double what Sovereign Parrish’s was, and he had several wives and husbands, though no mate. He looked every bit a Hale land wolf, though she had heard his true form was a chimera.

Lydia had looked upon each of them and knew that if she could sway even just two—even just Sovereign Aiden and Ethan—that her crown would be hers again. Parrish would sit next to her, and together they would ensure their pack grew healthy and strong.

They waited there, on the mouth of Mount Zendar, until the sliver of moon was risen directly above them. The volcano hissed and spit, but no liquid fire erupted. After the new moon had come into place, so tiny that shifters swore that Mother Moon held no power now, T’ara stepped up to them.

She was the one to perform the ceremony, as she was Parrish’s first Pawa. “We come to Vatrya, to ask for this union to be blessed.” She started, in shifter tongue. Lydia knew the words, but only because Ser Whittemore had spoken them in the human tongue before the ceremony.

“What Sovereign asks for this mating?” The Sovereigns called out.

“My name is Parrish, and I ask for this mating.”

Lydia tried to swallow against the dryness in her throat. She looked to Parrish, so certain and strong. It resolved her. “What Alpha-mate asks for this pairing?” The Pawas of all the Sovereigns called to her, enough voices to reverberate in her bones.

“My name is Lydia, of House Martin, and I ask for this pairing.” Lydia answered. T’ara watched her as she struggled with the shifter tongue, but Lydia refused to answer in the human language. She knew it was important, to prove to these packs that she was among them.

“This mating has been blessed by Vatrya, seen by my own eyes.” T’ara declared. “My senses do not lie, and this mating is wanted.”

Every eye turned to Vatrya’s Sovereign, to Deucalion. The last words were his. “This mating is blessed and wanted. In the eyes of Vatrya, may these two be sanctified. May their hearts be one for all to see.”

Lydia knew what came next, a fear clawing in her throat. She wanted to scream when Haigh stepped forward, a small, wooden trunk in his arms. T’ara opened it and pulled out a glove. It was fashioned out of kanima skin, strong and flexible and fireproof. T’ara offered it to Lydia, her last chance to back down.

The glove fit her well enough, the inside cold and smooth. After she slipped it on, Vargas stepped up to her and opened a glass vial. The scent of alcohol could be smelled by even Lydia’s human nose. It was dumped on the glove. Lydia hoped that the smell of brimstone and alcohol would block out her terror from the rest of the Sovereigns. Parrish stood beside her, quiet and still, waiting for the moment where she would seize his heart.

T’ara set the glove on fire, the kanima skin protecting her human flesh from burning. Her wrist began sweating, the heat from the flames making it feel like her skin was being stripped off. Lydia faced her Sovereign and knew she must place the fire directly over his heart.

As the glove settled against his skin, he made no sound of protest. She could feel the _thump, thump_ of his heart, could hear the way the skin burned away to make the scar. The moment passed, while the fumes were eaten by the fire and Parrish pulled the glove off her hand. He stepped closer to her, one hand cupping her waist. The wound was already healing into a new, red tattoo.

Lydia was aware that Parrish was a hell hound, was made of fire. His shifted form was the familiar of Vatrya, praised and loved by the goddess. He called his form and she saw his hand turn to bone encased in flame. She didn’t want to be sick; she didn’t want to make a fool of herself, and she didn’t want to hurt. The Sovereign had promised her that he would begin taking the pain the moment his hand came near her.

But the heat intimidated her still, and she struggled not to flinch back from his touch. While her breast sweltered, she could feel the cool of his healing touch on her lower back. The burn was unlike anything she had experienced, blinding in its intensity. Lydia felt her legs give beneath her, tears falling unbidden. Parrish held her up, kept removing the ache and burn from her chest.

She looked down at the wound, shocked how it already began to heal and scar. The Sovereign kissed her head then and those around them raised their voices in a single cheer. If the union had not been truly blessed, if the signs were wrong, her wound would fester and close in human healing time. With their hearts linked, she held the power of healing. She also could feel the thrum of his emotions, distant and muted, but it was there. Lydia had been told that it was an echo of a pack bond.

Sovereign Parrish lifted her then, walking past the cheers of the crowd and Vargas’ smile and T’ara’s acceptance, to the edge of the mountain. It was a climb down, after the climb up took close to seven hours. She had to make the hike herself, as it would show that she was capable, but it appeared not to be the case for the journey back. Lydia clutched at his shoulders, mindful of how high up they were.

“Tomorrow there will be mating gifts, but tonight is for us to celebrate alone.” He whispered to her, his warm breath ghosting over her skin.

Her stomach swooped low at the idea of them retreating back to their tents. After the first time, Parrish had lost none of the passion but had dialed back the urgency. He had spent hours between her legs with his mouth, had held her gently and took her slowly, until she understood the pleasure. Until she craved it like him.

Lydia tucked her face into his neck, pressing an open, wet kiss beneath his ear. “Take me back, then.” She murmured, feeling like the wind as he jumped them down.

\--

The sun was out, and the camps were alive when T’ara informed Parrish that they had a visitor. Lydia and he had not left the furs since they arrived down the mountain. After their coupling, the Sovereign had traced the welt of his hand on Lydia’s breast. It had healed easy, and it was several shades darker than her actual skin tone. His scar was lighter, but both were shiny with how tight the scar tissue was pulled.

Lydia was naked when T’ara had walked in but did not flinch from her eyes. She had begun to see a gleam of approval in T’ara since her and Parrish had asked Vatrya for Her blessing. It shimmered now, as Lydia sat in the beds with the Sovereign.

He bade her to send in the visitor, knowing that if they were able to walk on the island of Mount Zendar and through Sovereign Parrish’s encampment, then the visitor was of high importance. A strange man stepped through the tent entrance, wearing the garb of a high lord. It was plain in color, but rich in fabric, with a white silk shirt and thin, high quality cotton breeches. He had the appearance of a Republic man, bald with a mustache, but not at all of a shifter. He wore sandals, which was a dead give-away to his human status.

Parrish stood up to greet him, putting on pants as he climbed from the bed. Lydia stayed where she was, until her Sovereign handed her a robe to don. She stood up slowly, tucking herself away. The man averted his gaze from them while the clothed, another human quirk.

“Lord Deaton,” Parrish greeted the man in the shifter’s tongue. “Have you come to meet my mate?” Lydia caught the gist of his words, but only so. The name was said in human, as lord and human names rarely had an equivalent. When Parrish spoke of her in shifter tongue, he never used her name and instead referred to her as ‘little sun’.

“Yes, I have come to give my gifts and say congratulations.” Lord Deaton replied in the human tongue. He seemed to have no issue understanding. Then his eyes were set on her, and she struggled with what to say. She had been away from court for so long.

“Thank you for your gifts.” Lydia decided on.

The man smiled and ducked his head. “I’m hopeful you will find them to be of much use.” He replied, before pulling a tiny, burlap sack from his pocket. It had a rune drawn on it in blood and fell heavy like dirt was in it. He offered her the bag, and she had no choice but to take it. After a moment of careful examination, it seemed he began to take pity on her. “It’s an enchanted token, meant to keep your words and secrets from being spread. All you must do is pinch a little of the dust inside the bag and sprinkle it on your wrist. While it is there, no shifter may hear what you say unless you will it.”

“I have nothing to hide from my pack.” She responded with finality. Lydia almost went far enough to hand him back his gift and tell him good day, urged on by the quiet pride she could feel from Parrish.

Lord Deaton blinked at her. “I know that, Princess Lydia.” He started. “It is for the mating gifts you may incur—omega handmaidens, sworn claws or children to surround yourself with. They are gifts, yes.”

“But they are also spies.” Lydia finished for him. “How do you know who I am?”

“I know many things, told by many people. It is not uncommon to hear of Lydia, of House Martin, marrying Sovereign Parrish out in the sands.” Lord Deaton responded. “And I have counseled many Sovereigns at times, so I hear things even when I’m away.”

She nodded, assessing this Lord Deaton with new eyes. Before she saw him as a human, weak and currying favor. Now she wondered if she should be garnering favor from him.

“I hear things elsewhere, too.” He continued. “Things from the three Kingdoms, things from the Republic. Word has gathered that the newer King Gerard has begun to set his sights on Hale lands, going so far as to burn and pillage the border.”

“That’s madness.” Lydia couldn’t believe it. She was young when she was taken, but she knew the stories of the brilliant tactical mind of Gerard Argent. He had never been bested in field, could hold a siege for years, and was a long-term planner. It was how he had taken the castle, and why she was as wary as she was. “It would lead to war, a war he could not hope to win.”

Lord Deaton lifted one shoulder delicately. His eyes slid from her face while he showed his opinion. “While the Hale lands hold six alphas, and the packs that follow, it is mainly empty land. The people are strong, yes, but few.”

“But they are almost all wolves. Surely, Gerard isn’t foolish enough to think simple numbers would win him the next kingdom. And what of the Stilinski kingdom? Would they sit idly by while a power-hungry usurper seizes more land?”

“There is talks of a marriage agreement between the crown prince of Stilinski and one the Hale children.” Lord Deaton seemed to be a fount of information. Though she was uncertain if she could trust it. “It would secure their alliances, while maybe slowing down the King of Martin.”

“What is the purpose of you telling me this? What do you hope to gain from it?” Lydia asked sharply. She trusted sweet men little, and sweet words less.

Lord Deaton spread his hands. “It is one of my mating gifts. It is yours to choose what to do with, and I give it as a friend to Sovereign Parrish.”

Parrish had been notably quiet during their exchange, but she looked to him now. He stood on the other side of the furs, examining them both. He spoke after a moment. “Lord Deaton helped me when I was no more a pup thrown to the sands. He set my sights on a way to find power, and with that power, security. I would be dead of thirst or fights had it not been for him.”

He regarded Lord Deaton, as her suspicion was echoed in him. “If what you say is true, then his attention is divided. His men fight away from the capital. There is a certain beauty to an enemy surrounded on all sides.”

This caused Lord Deaton to smile, tipping his head. “I was hopeful you would see it as I do. An advantageous time.” He then bowed low to each of them, his shirt billowing out beneath his shoulders. “And now it is time for me to leave. While Sovereign Parrish enjoys my company, many others would cry outrage for me to be here.”

“I understand. Thank you, Lord Deaton.” Lydia responded. She waited until he left to begin to speak. Parrish watched her as she undid the satchel and place a pinch of the black powder on her and him.

“If you do not think he wore some of his magic while talking to us,” She started while smearing it over his wrist.

Sovereign Parrish smirked down at her, his mirth on the edges of her being. “I know he did, I could smell it.” He caught her hands in his once she finished her work. “I am proud, but not too proud to admit to my mate when I have erred.”

Lydia examined his face. It was as open as it ever was, with warmth in his eyes and a twist to his mouth but no more. “If what Lord Deaton says holds water, then today would be the day to gather.”

“So, I will call them to arms during our mating celebration?” She asked, imagining it then. How she would stand, how Ser Whittemore, at her side, would translate the words she did not yet know. What she would offer, and the desire in the shifter’s eyes.

Parrish shook his head, however. Her eyes cut to slits and she pushed her disbelief out with a heavy thrum. He soothed at her fingers. “I will allow you to call to them in your way, if that is truly what you want. But it will not gather them as you hope, and I know this. Lydia, of House Martin, your way is that of the noble with grace and beauty.” His eyes dropped to her mouth. “Beauty, yes. They will not respond as you presume – allow me to speak, to find our allies. I know these shifters as good as can be expected.”

She paused, thinking on his words. Lydia imagined what Ser Whittemore might counsel, as a bridge between their two cultures. But she could hear the drums of their mating rise now, midday for sure in the sky, and knew that the second they stepped from the tent, it would be time. “We are one,” She said, feeling a reverberating sense of devotion and delight. “I trust that your mating gift to me is all that I’ve ever wanted.”

Her Sovereign stepped closer, hands lifting up to tangle in her hair. She titled her head up during his ministrations. “A crown? A castle?” Parrish whispered, his mouth ghosting along her face. Lydia tilted her head up further, giving access to her neck. “An old man’s head?”

His kiss sent shocks through her. A low groan worked its way up her throat, and she placed her hands on the side of his face. Lydia pulled his face up to be able to see him and then scented him along their cheeks. “A crown, a castle,” She agreed. “An old man’s head and lands for our packs, a throne for you and I, food and water and trees.”

They dressed together for the ceremony, Lydia wearing a dazzling, sea-green dress and a gold band on her upper arm. She wore no shoes, the island cool enough for her feet. It was held on the edge of their encampment and the other packs had converged there. It was on the sands. Her pack had made a dais out of washed up wood, with two beautiful pillows for her and Parrish to sit upon.

There were tables where other Sovereigns sat, and there was a large open space for dancing. Men and women twined around each other, hands placed under clothes and in hair. There were some she saw from her pack that were lost in the dance with betas from other backs. The tables held an abundance of fish on them, gutted and grilled. There was bread and a wine imported from Stilinski lands.

The dancing and feasting would go on until dusk, and then the mating gifts would be presented. Parrish had warned her that on the sands, here, there may be a Borrak. There would certainly be betas fighting each other over wine, meat, bodies. She spied one man with bloody claws already, eating a choice piece of swordfish. Lydia didn’t see the shifter he cut open, however.

Lydia took her seat on the platform, safe from the fights and the touching. Sovereign Parrish kissed her head before jumping down and walking among the shifters. She would sit here and observe as the Alpha-mate of honor. T’ara, Vargas and Haigh sat below them, on pillows of their own. All already had food, and Vargas allowed herself to be led away by a tall, dark man. T’ara turned in her seat to offer Lydia some bread and cheese.

“Thank you,” Lydia responded, surprised that the Pawa would give her food from her own plate.

“Of course.” T’ara said, showing her neck. Lydia touched it briefly, knowing that it was an offer to scent her. It was the politest interaction they had had. Haigh kept facing forward, watching the merriments with blank eyes. “If there is anything else, I can get you, do not hesitate to let me know.”

“Do you know where Ser Whittemore is?” She hadn’t seen her knight since the eve before. He had held her face in his hands, scenting her, before she climbed up Mount Zendar. Ser Whittemore was not allowed on the mountain. Despite how it unsettled her to be separated from him, she ordered him to stay down.

“I believe he is encircling the celebration, to ensure that all is well.” She paused, looking at where Parrish had gone. Lydia saw him with Sovereign Ennis. “In truth, I think it saddens him to be around you. He is devoted, more than even most kanimas.”

Lydia frowned at her words. “What do you presume to mean?”

“Kanimas are dedicated to their masters, it is known, but most kanimas switch from master to master every few years. I think the consistency has allowed him to develop… feelings for you, Lydia of House Martin.”

She would be lying if she said she had not noticed the elder shifter’s glances or the way that he spoke to her. Lydia was aware of Ser Whittemore’s affections, was even more aware of his honor. “What do you mean that most switch masters?”

T’ara looked at her in puzzlement. “What do you know of kanimas?”

“They are reptilian, they are loyal, they are shifters and they hold poison in their claws.” Lydia answered. When she was younger and realized that he would be her only companion for the foreseeable future, she went to great pains to learn what she could of him. But Republic libraries held little knowledge on the shifters, and she had little excess coin to spend for Hale library scrolls to be sent to Desert’s Edge.

“They are loyal to their masters,” T’ara responded. “But their master can change. If an old master is killed, then the killer is usually the one who becomes the master. Your father must have had plans in order to allow him to defer to you.”

“Or Ser Whittemore chose me for himself.”

T’ara shook her head. “Kanimas cannot choose their master, it is known. They follow the blood and do as is bid of them. It’s in their nature.”

Before Lydia could retort, a high snarling sound came from the sands. She snapped her gaze up to where two young Sovereigns circled each other. One had the look of a Republic man and the other was as fair as Lydia, with red hair and freckles. They peeled their lips up to show teeth and were flashing each other with their crimson eyes. Parrish was across the sands from her, but she could feel his concern through the bond. T’ara stood, shifting herself in front of Lydia.

Lydia could still see, and thought it was a bit overkill to protect her. It was clear that she was not the goal of this fight, though what was, was unknown to her. In a flash, the two alphas collided. Cloth tore and red spilled on the sands before they danced apart again. The Republic Sovereign curled on himself some, an open wound across his stomach. His claws were still out, and he snapped when the other alpha danced to close.

They collided again, once, twice. Lydia watched the fair Sovereign, how he stood on his toes while fighting and the other moved like a bull. The red-haired one had a cut across his cheek, but the other Sovereign was losing his life on the beach. He was starting to stumble, a deep wound in his stomach, one arm uselessly broken, and a tendon cut in his calf. The two Alphas came together again, and in the sounds of teeth and growls, the Republic man dropped.

The sands around him greedily took in his blood, his throat open to let it all out. The drums started up again, and his Pawas came to take his body away. By nightfall, the three of them and he would all be in the Burning Plains. Lydia searched the sea of faces to see a man, or woman, who looked distraught over the loss of their mate. “He was unbound.” T’ara said, when she noticed how Lydia scanned the beach.

She felt her shoulders loosen, grateful there wasn’t a person who had to choose between death and a new marriage today. Parrish picked his way back to her, settling on the dais. Lydia lifted up his hand, kissing his open palm. Her Sovereign smiled back at her, pushing his palm along her cheek.

“You have an audience tonight with Sovereign Deucalion.” He murmured.

The news startled her, looking for the elder alpha in the throngs. She saw him at a table, surrounded by his Pawas and eating fish. His men were laughing around him, young beta shifters orbiting around him. He did not look up, though she would suppose he wouldn’t. The Borrak had left his eyes a terrible mess, with claw marks that covered the top of his face in white scar tissue. She wondered why his men followed him, in the beginning, after he lost his sight.

“Me?” She asked back. Lydia trusted Parrish to secure their allies, how he said he could speak to them better than she could. Literally and metaphorically.

Parrish nodded, his thumb tugging at the soft skin under her eye. “He insisted it be you that he spoke to. It will be in my tents, so you shall be safe, but it will be just you and him.”

“After the mating gifts?” Parrish responded in the positive. It was almost time for the gifts, as well. The sun was beginning to dip beneath the trees, making the world out in a green hue. The water next to the beach began to glitter like it did when the sun came close.

Soon the drums stopped for good, and the dancers took their partners to the tables or into the woods. Not everyone had to be there for the gifts. It would start with the youngest, greenest of the Sovereigns. Their gifts would be splendid, meant to make Parrish favor them. One gave her a dress made of spider silk, dyed to be the same color as her eyes. Another gave her beautiful jewels, a necklace and rings to match. Yet another offered her a set of grand make-up, kohl and reddener and perfumes to smell sweet for her Sovereign. Several attempted to give her children, with each a child-like beauty, that would be hers to do as she pleased. She flinched from those gifts, thanking them but ultimately turning them away. Lydia was grateful for Parrish’s rank, so that she may deny these gifts.

Then came Alphas that were near rank to her mate. Among them was the red-haired alpha. He offered her a small sand snake, beautiful and harmless. It would never grow larger than her little finger and would stay docile. Vargas took the gift from him, as she said the accustomed thanks. Others offered books for knowledge, blades for her husband, or treats that they would not find in the Cottleg.

Finally came the five Sovereigns who ranked higher than Parrish. She and he both shifted in their seats, sitting at attention. First came Sovereign Aiden and Ethan, together. One of them held a clothed cage, faint hoots coming from within. They revealed an elf owl, the tiniest of its kind. It was so that she may use him as a carrier for messages, should Lydia ever have want of it. She thanked them.

Sovereign Ennis came next, offering a bow of great height. Its wood was bleached to appear as bone, with the thinnest strand to nock arrows into. Lydia said her thanks, telling him that her Sovereign will carry the weapon for her, since she would not be able to.

Sovereign Kali presented a blade, elegant and jeweled. The hilt was heavy when it was passed to Lydia, weighed down to stay in her hand. And while it was many times more costly than Lydia’s current blade, she knew it would not take the plain one’s place. She thanked Sovereign Kali, swearing that it would be near her always.

And then, at last, Sovereign Deucalion walked up to the dais. The crowds went quiet in front of Vatrya’s Sovereign. He wore a secret smile, as if he was consistently satisfied. “I offer you a great gift today.” He declared. Lydia knew she could not refuse him, not unless she wished an immediate Borrak on her mate. Three women stepped forward, all looking from the Hale lands. “I offer you three of my wives, as your handmaidens.”

The eldest stepped forward. She had grey streaks in her hair, a proud look in her eyes, and wrinkles around her face and hands. “This is Babika, she is a skilled midwife. She has helped to deliver hundreds of children to my pack and has never lost one.” Babika bowed her head to them. Lydia thanked the Sovereign before her.

The next stepped forward. She was plain of face, and somewhat heavier than most shifters. The only wrinkles on her face were around her mouth, and they appeared to be smile-lines. “This is Tyari. She has ensured my pack has never gone hungry.” Lydia thanked him again.

The last was a younger woman. She had a mischievous look to her, and an hour-glass shape. She wore her clothing in a daring way, and all eyes followed her as she walked. Even Lydia felt enthralled by her presence. “This is Koro. She knows the ways of the mind and body. My pack does not kneel to sickness because of her.”

Lydia echoed her gratitude, looking at each woman in turn. There was no doubt they would serve her well, and Sovereign Deucalion faithfully. After her thanks had been said, the drums begin to beat in a way that lead the packs away from their encampment. Some of her betas wandered away with the men and women they had come across dancing, and others pulled them towards their pack.

She stood when Parrish offered her a hand up. While Sovereign Deucalion’s men began to leave, him and the three women stayed standing below the platform. Lydia came down from it, and Sovereign Deucalion said, “I will show my wives to their new home. To say goodbye, and to speak with you.” The last words were directed at her. She was grateful for Parrish’s previous warning, as else she would not know how to respond.

As it was, Lydia smiled cordially. “Of course, I would be honored.”

The eyes of the pack watched them as Sovereign Deucalion walked with them, as they had the first time Lydia arrived. They were familiar to her now, and she could see what was within them: curiosity, wariness, fear and excitement. The women that followed Sovereign Deucalion drew as many gazes as the man himself.

Their tent rose before them, crimson and huge. Lydia felt a momentary swelling of pride, that this was her home among the shifters. T’ara stood outside the tent, having gone ahead, as well as Ser Whittemore. He looked conflicted as she approached.

Lydia could not afford a kindness at the moment, with a possible-ally, possible-enemy, at her back. She kept her head high and walked into the tent without acknowledging her knight. The flap closed behind her, but she kept walking to the table. There was a jug of water, strained and boiled to rid it of salt, and a few clay cups. Lydia poured into two, sitting one across from her. There was also a bowl of fruit, freshly picked from the trees of the island. A knife rested next to the bowl, distinctly for Lydia, as she had no claws to cut her fruit.

She was alone for several heartbeats, until Sovereign Deucalion shouldered his way into the tent. Lydia stood straighter. Even without his eyes, it felt as if he was watching her moves.

“Please, sit down.” Lydia offered. There was a flash of panic of how she should lead him to the table, or if she should, and how it may offend him.

Sovereign Deucalion chuckled softly while she debated. “I can find my way to the table but thank you for the concern.” Her cheeks flamed up.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to—"

He waved his hand, walking slowly to the table. As the edge of it neared, he stopped and placed his palm to the wood. “It’s quite alright, dear. Most people have that similar concerns upon meeting me. Blind people are rare, and blind alphas.” He smiled. “Why, I am rather unheard of.”

She sat as he did and watched when he was able to pick up his drink smoothly. Sovereign Deucalion did not move in the fumbling way she had seen blind peasants do. “What else is unheard of is a Martin running with a Cottleg shifter pack. Or the whole debacle with Gerard Argent.”

Lydia’s lips thinned. “A setback,” She conceded. “One that has been allowed to go on for too long.”

“And I presume that you hope to circumvent it. With the help of your new mate, and maybe a few others? Do you plan on paying the packs in gold, when the towns turn them away from getting homes?”

He was on the eye of the issue. Leading shifters back to the kingdoms, the same ones who tossed them as children, posed difficulties. But Lydia had thought on it, mulled it over in her mud hut at Desert’s Edge, and then laying naked next to her Sovereign at night. “No, I plan on offering land. Lordships for the Sovereigns, taken from traitors.” Quivering Wood would be taken, as would Silverstead. The only lords who certainly turned from her family was Gerard and Lord Conray. However, several must have stood by while the men marched through their towns. Farmer’s Grove, Little Keep, Willow Brook.

“Land? Titles?” Sovereign Deucalion seemed to ponder over it for a moment. “I can see the appeal. A way to rule over the wolves that were do them harm, a way to protect their packs. For the more progressive wolves, a way to join a non-beta pack. It’s not for me, though.”

Lydia startled. She had nothing to offer him besides that, for that was the highest gift in her power. “I’m sorry?”

“No, I think you will find I am much more simple. All I ask, is that when the time comes, you will deliver a single order for me.”

“May I know what it is?” She was wary. It didn’t sound like the Sovereign was hoping to knock her from her power, but she couldn’t imagine what else he may want.

“In time.” He responded. His smile grew as he scented her discomfort. “I will tell you it has nothing to do with you, so you may rest easy that my eyes are not on your throne.”

“If I swear to do this, you will lead your pack with Sovereign Parrish’s?”

Sovereign Deucalion tipped his head forward, mirth radiating from him. “I will lead much more than my pack with yours. I have many allies, and many favors are owed. You will have no less than eight thousand shifters at your back.”

There was nothing for Lydia to do except agree, heart beat strong in her chest and hope in her lungs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am feeling much, much better than I have for the last month. Sorry for the delay in the work, I am still going to complete it. 
> 
> The chapter after this will most likely be out on 4/24.


	12. Derrik

He wasn’t quite sure how Queen Melissa had managed it, but she had magicked his mother into allowing a banquet for them. Technically, it wasn’t for the Hales—Queen Melissa was approaching a birth day—but they would be the guests of honor. It was a week before they left, and Derrik was certain that Queen Talia had acquiesced in excitement to going home.

Each of the wolves seemed to vibrate as the date to traveling back up to the north lands fast approached. Laura had left two weeks previous, after a midwife made an offhand comment that she may birth soon. She had cried and swore that her child was to be born in the Hale castle, and they had to get back before it was born elsewhere. Derrik chalked it up to the wolves in her belly.

The castle was alive as preparations were made. Lords and ladies flocked into the guest rooms, and the Forest Watch tower, which used to be just his and Boyd’s and Isaac’s, now was full of Stilinski nobility. He could hear them speaking in their chambers and it kept him up. One of the ladies that resided her, a Lady Shernburry, had taken one look at him and had been attempting to woo him to her bed since. Despite the fact that she was older than his mother, and plumper than a mother hen.

So Derrik took even more solace in the forest. Joren seemed to have the same mind, coming back later and leaving earlier each day. Whenever their paths crossed, he smelled faintly of lavender and it made Derrik feel a tendril of warmth.

Prince Stiles also began to show in the forest more. A few weeks previous, he had started to bring food with him as well. They would usually sit near the brook, with cold water in a skin, and nibble on cheese and salted meat. The prince would tell him about each lord or lady that had come, and in turn, Derrik would show him what he was working on. Prince Stiles had laughed so hard that he cried when Derrik had offered his only information on the court, which was that of Lady Shernburry.

It was companionable, and comfortable. His suppers with his family were still lively and he had yet to find a way to tell them about his meetings with the prince. Whenever he thought to, something would close up in his throat and still his words.

Isaac had gotten the new books from Moonpearl and had triumphantly talked about how Prince Stiles seemed much more inclined to read the botany books. Conan had retorted that the prince had taken his crown, and the lovely shade of red he turned when he had presented it to the younger prince. As far as anyone was concerned, only Conan, Isaac and Boyd were still in the running.

Today, as he came back from the wood, there were men taking down the drapes that slung from the Kings Tower to the four small ones. It was the deep green of his family’s sigil. In its place, a pastel pink was being constructed. Derrik would wager that it was probably Queen Melissa’s favorite color, and that was why it was going up.  
He stood in the gardens, watching as they threw it down the line. It cast shadows on the garden, the same that the deep green did, but instead of it being a full shadow, it bathed the walk and flowers in pink.

Derrik felt, rather than saw, Prince Stiles approach. He was coming from behind, and Derrik took a moment to savor his scent. When the scuffle on the pavement was loud enough, he turned to look at Prince Stiles. The young prince broke into a smile when he met Derrik’s gaze.

“I thought I spied you out here.” He said, scent happy and light. “It’s early for you to be coming back to the castle.”

“I had a hunger.” Derrik responded. He meant what he said, as today Prince Stiles had not come out with food, but his mind took the words and warped them as he watched the prince’s throat.

His words caused Prince Stiles to blush; shame wafting off him. _You’ve made him feel bad_ , Derrik thought reproachfully. “I had a meeting this morning with my king father.” While Derrik knew that it was bad form to take cues off human scent, namely since they couldn’t do the same, he still found himself tilting up his face to see how Prince Stiles was feeling.

Mirth. A little fear. Or nervous? He didn’t seem to be upset with his father.

“About, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Prince Stiles laughed at him. It flashed Derrik back to Princess Katherine, and how she had laughed at him, but it did not strike the same spirits within him. “I would not have brought it to your attention if I minded.” The prince pointed out. “We were talking about the ball.”

Derrik winced. “Ah.”

It was a noble tradition, something that did not vary from kingdom to kingdom, strangely, for the crown child to open a celebration with a dance. Derrik had noticed how Prince Stiles walked, so he felt fairly certain he knew how the man would dance.

“I actually managed to talk him down from making me dance, and instead he and Queen Melissa will open the court.” Prince Stiles said, reading his thoughts from his face.

“That’s good,” Derrik offered in return. No wonder he didn’t smell upset at his father.

Prince Stiles nodded, and then kept nodding for an inordinate amount of time. His smile grew strained, and the nervous stench grew stronger. “It is. However, in return, I do have to dance—and not just with my dancing instructor, who will lead me and then cry about it the next day.”

“Cry?”

“He complains that I step on his toes, and that I’ve broken his bones.” Prince Stiles waved his hand dismissively. “Anyway, I was hoping…”

He trailed off suddenly. Derrik knew what he was about to say, what he was attempting to screw his courage up to say. There was a moment where he thought to torture the prince by making him ask fully. But there was a larger part of him, one that whispered, _He wants to dance with you_. “Yes.” Derrik said.

Prince Stiles blinked at him, a radiant smile breaking across his face. Derrik felt something crack in him, and knew himself to be a lost cause, and smiled back. “I will warn you that I am a horrid dancer, but I feel as if I have told you that once before.”

“You have,” The prince’s grin turned in its delight, grew and somehow brightened even further. “But that is great, for then when they see what a sorry pair we are, they will think it the fault of you.”

“Ha,” Derrik said back flatly. He didn’t mind if the court thought him left-footed, for he was. “Unless I cry that you’ve broken my toes.”

“They will heal faster than you can prove it.” Prince Stiles said in a daring way. Derrik felt a breathless laugh leave him, and the prince relaxed some. He spent a second gazing at the flowers around them. “I’m glad I found you here. Not that the woods aren’t lovely, and wild, and full of wild, lovely animals, but the gardens are my favorite place.”

“Their beauty is planned, organized by our hands. It’s different than the woods.” Derrik allowed.

“It does not make them any less enthralling to me. All that beauty in your book, was made by your hands, doesn’t make it any less wonderful.” Prince Stiles pointed out, looking at where Derrik still had his drawing book tucked in his hands. “My favorite flower refuses to bloom anywhere besides in these gardens, try how I may to get it inside, or into the woods.”

“Which one?”

Prince Stiles gestured to a cropping of magnificently large, red and yellow flowers. They looked to be the blood cousin of sunflowers. “They’re gazanias. They only really bloom in spring, and they are so full of life.”

It was as if the garden was seen through new eyes. Derrik looked at the blooms and saw the beauty Prince Stiles spoke on. He looked at the carefully crafted pebble walkways and bushes and blooms and thought that there was art to be found here as well. “It is a good flower.” Derrik agreed. If only to make Prince Stiles smile and duck his head, the way that he laughed and responded, “Yeah.”

That was the last time they were able to speak before the banquet. The castle was in a whirl, and as the crown prince, Prince Stiles had duties. He had ladies and lords to greet and spend time with, meetings with his king father, and fittings and food tasting with Queen Melissa.

Derrik knew all of this from Conan, who divulged it during their family dinners. Sometimes Queen Talia would join them, smiling at the way they all acted. It cut down on the amount of food being tossed greatly and allowed Derrik to listen to Conan explain Prince Stiles’ day. He was unsure how his human brother knew so much, and yet rarely spoke to the prince.

His mother had helped him pick out an outfit for the celebration a few days before, not-so-subtly hinting that he may look around during it, but she loved him all the same if he found no one to dance with. Derrik had nodded and said, ‘thank you’ and ‘I love you’ at the appropriate times. Truly, he was in his nerves, because he had yet to tell his family about his involvement with Prince Stiles.

As they rarely touched, neither kept the other’s scent for long or strongly. It would be easy to think that they had passed in a hallway or brushed up against the same door within the same hour. He knew that the correct pathway would be to tell his family, as to not surprise them, but he had yet to even give anything to Prince Stiles. And, he had yet to return the gifts of his cousins and brother.

A small, reasonable part of his mind pointed out that Prince Stiles didn’t want to return them, because Derrik hadn’t made his intention known. He was just uncertain on how. Did Prince Stiles truly fancy him as well? Or was the hints of affection and attention that he smelled off the man due to something that was not Derrik?

 _But then why would he ask you to dance?_ His mind supplied.

In the end, when the day arrived, his family had no idea how much time he spent with the crown prince and he had no idea what it meant. Derrik wore the green doublet that his mother had picked out for him. He disliked doublets on principle, too fluffy and constricting. It had a gold trim, one that his sister said complimented his eyes well. He wore breeches that were a brown close enough to gold.

Queen Talia had attempted to commandeer him into a pair of boots, saying that it was the fashion of the Stilinski kingdom. Derrik had refused, stating that they were the guests of honor so, he wouldn’t be changing fashions.

He thinks she only let him win because they had also been talking about him dancing with others. It was a low win, but it was one that Derrik would take as long as he didn’t have to stick his feet into leather.

The Great Hall had been decorated for the event. The tables were pushed up against the walls, and the back of the Hall. There were hors d’oeuvres lining the tables – tiny skewers of assorted fruit, tiny cakes with cream, slices of meat and cheese. There was a band, at the back of the Hall as well. There was a lyre, and someone to play a drum beat, and a harp and violin and piano and trumpets. A woman’s voice sang background, meaningless words.

The lords and ladies of the Stilinski lands turned out in their best clothes. Every woman had at least three skirts, fanning out to make space for her. There were jewels glinting on everyone fingers, ears and necks and perfume hung heavy in the air. Derrik was already feeling lightheaded and wrong-footed, wishing that it had been an outdoors party. The Queen and King were not yet present, and thus, the dance floor remained empty.

Derrik spied his mother across the way, talking to a younger lady. She was blushing, smiling too large and darting peeks at his mother. He quickly placed focus elsewhere, not wanting to watch a smitten girl get turned down by his mother. Erica was standing near Boyd, at the back of the Hall next to the band. They were laughing. Malia was nowhere to be seen, as was Cora. Derrik wouldn’t be surprised if Queen Talia told them they didn’t have to come.

He could smell Conan, could hear his laugh, but didn’t spy him through the brush of people. It didn’t worry Derrik though, since this was his brother’s element. Laura would have loved it as well, at least, he knew she would if she was not swollen with child.

Trumpets sounded from the door behind the dais with the thrones, and everyone ceased speaking. Even Derrik felt a rush of excitement, threaded with nervousness. King Thomas stepped through first. He wore a long, scarlet cape and the rest of his garb was black. It made the color stand out starker against him. His Queen was lovely, with a black dress that had hem and a sash across her waist and the middle of her skirts that was red. A bow tied the back, crimson in color, and tiny ruffles set on her shoulders that matched the bow. Her hair was in a large bun, with a thin chain making pyramids to hold it up that had rubies hanging from the chain.

Prince Stiles stepped through last, taking his place on the left of his father. His clothes were less than either, though no less brilliant to Derrik. He wore red as well, as was their sigil, a doublet with silver hem and a pair of black breeches and boots. The boots caused Derrik to have a small smile, private in their conversation. He wondered if he had enough skill to protect his bare feet.

His mind reminded him that they would heal. And he couldn’t argue with that, while Queen Melissa and King Thomas took their stances on the dance floor. King Thomas regarded everyone with a kind eye, and called out, “Thank you for coming to my lovely queen wife’s celebration. We are especially fortunate that our allies to the north could join us.” He dipped his head down towards Queen Talia, who nodded in turn.

And then, a note was played on the piano, and the two were off. The harp joined in, a beautiful lightness that the piano simply did not possess. They twirled around the room in elegance, smiling at each other. He could scent their love from where he was, and it made him feel more at peace as well. Queen Melissa laughed when King Thomas dipped her, and King Thomas blushed when she kissed his cheek.

After their first dance, they bowed to the crowd. The court applauded them as they moved off the dance floor. A beat on the drum set off the celebration, with others flooding to the middle of the room. He saw Conan out there, twirling around the same young lady that spoke to his mother. Derrik noticed how she looked even more starry-eyed when being guided by his brother.

He watched through three dances, a headache forming behind his forehead. He had eaten some fruit, the light aroma distracting from the perfume. After the third dance, he watched Prince Stiles begin to scan the room from his throne. He stood up after murmuring something to his father.

Derrik saw him weave his way through the crowd, knowing that it was him that the prince looked for. He snuck up behind him, listening to the prince fend off others and mutter apologies.

“Are you looking for someone, Prince Stiles?” Derrik asked innocently.

The prince jumped a foot, before whirling around to point a finger at Derrik. His cheeks were already red, and he looked so welcoming to Derrik. “How long have you been following?”

“I came over when I noticed that you were attempting to find someone.” He paused. “Now, how long I watched you look…” Derrik grinned, one of the few full smiles that felt full in his heart as well.

He caught a scent from Prince Stiles and looked up at the man’s face. He looked blankly at Derrik, mouth slightly ajar and he smelled warm. After a second, he coughed and shuffled his feet. “I think you owe me a dance for watching me make a fool of myself.”

“I already owed you a dance,” Derrik reminded him.

“Yes, well, now you can’t back out because you double-owe me a dance.” Stiles said, waving his hands. He did that when he was nervous, Derrik had noticed. The dance made Derrik nervous too.

“I guess that it only fair.” Derrik conceded. “Though it will drop the amount of times you step on my feet.”

Prince Stiles laughed at that, a bright, sharp laugh. “You will have to lead well if you don’t want me to maim your feet.” The music changed then, to a slower sound with the piano as the main instrument. The intricate dance moves that occurred on the floor ceased, and they seemed to do the standard waltz.

Derrik held out his hand. “It appears that now would be the best time to dance, before they start up custom dances I do not know.”

“And I do not remember.” Prince Stiles agreed cheekily. He placed his hand in Derrik’s, warm and large. For a moment, he thought on Paige, and how tiny and cold her hand had always been. He would joke that he would keep her warm. The memory did not hurt him this time. Instead, it came, and it went, and Derrik opened his eyes and saw that he was still with Prince Stiles.

They made it to the dance floor in one piece. Derrik did his best block out his senses when it came to his family. He did not wish to see his mother’s shock, or Conan or Isaac looking at him. Instead, he focused on the way that Prince Stiles settled his hands on his shoulder and into his palm. He felt the curve of the prince’s waist, where his hand fit.

Prince Stiles had a nervous twitch in his left hand, that would cause his fingers to spasm every few seconds. Since Derrik had placed his hand at his waist, the prince had been breathing rather shallow. The scent of arousal hit Derrik solidly in the chest. It was one that he was familiar with, and one that was custom to ignore.

However, it was hard to ignore from Prince Stiles. He could feel his own body rise to the challenge, could feel his blood rise and his face heat. They settled into their position, and Derrik did his best to ignore both of their scents. He twirled the prince, feeling his boot graze the top of his foot.

Derrik winced, casting a glance at his dancing partner. Prince Stiles wore an unabashed smile, and he knew that he had done it on purpose. “How embarrassing do you think it would be if I left you here?”

The prince’s face lost its humor for a moment, before it came back. “No more shameful would it be for me than for you. Besides, I danced, so I followed what my king father wanted.”

“Is that the only thing he wanted you to do at this banquet?” Prince Stiles nodded. “That isn’t much at all. After this, you could always leave and go to sleep.”

“You could leave.” The prince pointed out. “You didn’t even have to come.”

“I promised someone a dance.” His dancing partner’s scent spiked in happiness. Derrik could hear the way that his heart stuttered in his chest and knew that the prince was just as lost as he was on each other. Prince Stiles looked up at him, beaming. His heart beat responded, his lungs clenched tight.

“How incredibly noble of you.” Prince Stiles teased. They turned a few more times in the dance, with Derrik managing to move his feet from where Prince Stiles stepped his. After another simple twirl, the prince pressed closer to him. “We should leave after the dance.” He said lowly.

Heat pooled in Derrik’s stomach, and his throat felt like it was being constricted. It was all he could do to ask, “Where would we go?”

“To the woods.” Prince Stiles said. “I’ll go first and take a flagon of wine. You can come after me, but you have to bring glasses for us.”

The idea of the prince managing to sneak, but not only sneak himself but also a flagon, made Derrik laugh. His heart felt soft when he looked back to his dancing partner. “If you can manage to get a flagon of wine out of here, without alerting suspicion, then sure, I’ll bring some glasses.”

“I can be stealthy!” The prince said. The dance ended, with the music fading out. They stepped apart, and Derrik missed his body instantaneously. “You’ll see.” Prince Stiles swore.

He left Derrik standing in the dance floor as another merry tune started up. Derrik had to dodge the practiced moves of the court as he made his escape. He was already looking for servants holding glass trays before seeing if Prince Stiles had managed to grab a flagon. An older servant passed by him with boy’s wine, and Derrik took two glasses. He emptied them both down his throat.

Prince Stiles was gone when he was finished with the drinks. Derrik could feel his heart thump wildly as he too went towards the exit, ducking around people and hoping that his mother’s eyes were not on him.

The night air was cool when he stepped out to the gardens. There were a few gaggles of lords and ladies out here. Some sat on benches, in groups of three or four, and others strolled arm in arm. Derrik walked past them all, to the back gate where two nights stood watch.

One appeared to be the famous Ser Fletcher, “the Old”, if he looked anything like Joren described. He nodded to Derrik as he let him out. It made him nervous, knowing that a few moments prior Prince Stiles had been here. Derrik could even smell his honey and mint scent on the way if he tried.

The moonlight guided him easily to the forest. He tried to imagine how it was for Prince Stiles, and if he had crept along inch by inch so not as to spill the wine. Derrik moved in silence, holding one glass in each hand to keep them from clinking. He found the prince in the grove of Bleeding Hearts. Many of the blooms had wilted, but others took their place just as quick.

It was bright enough in the grove, that Derrik thinks without his wolf eyes, he’d still be able to see. He made a slight bit of noise as he decided he didn’t actually want to scare the prince to death. Prince Stiles turned around to see him, squinting into the darkness.

“Prince Derrik?” He whispered.

“Yeah,” Derrik wasn’t sure what else to say. He sat down next to the prince. “You got the wine.” He noted, with the container propped up on the prince’s knee.

“Actually, it’s just juice.” Prince Stiles admitted. “But I did get it out here, like I said. We just won’t be able to get drunk.”

“I can’t get drunk anyway.” Derrik confessed. He picked up the jug and poured a little juice in each glass. The ground was level enough for him to sit them on it, and he offered the second glass to Prince Stiles. When their hands touched, his heart jolted in his chest.

“Really? Never?”

“I mean, I can, but only if the wine has been made with wolfsbane.”

“Wolfsbane?” Derrik didn’t mind Prince Stiles’ questioning, as it never seemed to be perverse or make him look at Derrik differently.

“It’s a plant. Little, purple flower.” He explained. In truth, he wasn’t sure how they made it where it could be drunk, or how it could intoxicate wolves.

Prince Stiles gasped. “I’ve seen it before. But Scot said it’s poisonous!”

Derrik chuckled. “Prince Scot is right, technically. It can be really poisonous to wolves. But not when we put it in our drinks.”

“Would it poison me? If I were to touch it?”

“I don’t think so. It rarely even hurts me, if I touch it. It’s only if I get it’s juice on my hands or eat it whole.” Derrik paused. “Or at least, I think. I’ve never actually eaten it whole before.”

“I’m glad, because then you might be dead.” Prince Stiles responded. They both were silent for a second, as Derrik struggled to think of something to say. The admission made his heart weak.

“Why would you want to touch it, though?”

“I was hoping to make a bouquet with it, once a long time ago. Scot told me it was poisonous then.”

Derrik hummed, taking a sip of the boy’s wine. It really was too sweet. “It could probably hurt him. If it dried in your room, it may have effects.”

“Oh,” Prince Stiles went quiet again. The small bugs of the wood chirped around them. “I enjoyed our dance.”

“I did too. Or at least the parts where my feet were not crushed.” Derrik jested. The prince aimed an elbow at him, placing it lightly between two ribs. It felt more kind than quick. Both of them giggled. “Though, in truth, I fear it may lead to questions from my mother.”

“Questions?”

“About this.” Derrik made a gesture between them. Prince Stiles sat his juice down when Derrik did and regarded him seriously. “About what it means.”

“What does it mean?” Prince Stiles’ heartbeat was like a bird now. It was clear he waited for Derrik’s answer, as much as Derrik waited himself.

 _What does it mean?_ He thought of the prince’s golden eyes, and the way he laughed, and how his mouth curved when he had said something daring. Derrik thought of honey and mint, thought of moments in the wood and picnic lunches and kind words of his drawing. “I haven’t even decided what to give you as a courting gift.” He realized, still dancing between ideas of levels of intimacy for both of them.

His words made Prince Stiles’ heart beat somehow even faster. Derrik looked over to him in concern but saw little before Prince Stiles had kissed him. It was a dry kiss, chaste and quick. It still made Derrik’s skin feel like it had been set on fire. The prince pulled away and he chased, pressing another kiss on his lips. Returning the gesture with a low, throaty noise.

Derrik wanted to lean further into his space, to box Prince Stiles in around him and put his hands on him. Under his clothes and on his neck and in his hair. He wanted, more than anything, to possess him in that flash of a moment. Instead, he pulled back. Prince Stiles cleared his throat, his eyes slightly unfocussed. “I can wait for a gift. Whatever it is, my answer will be yes.” He promised, in the warm mingling of their breath.

\--

It had been over two months since Joren had woken Derrik with a nervous tinge in his scent, but it was familiar all the same. Derrik groaned at the light that was cascading through his window, tucking his face into the cloth to block it out. Then he realized that the cloth was attached to a person, and that person was Prince Stiles.

Derrik was up and blinking faster than he had been since the whole Conan-and-whore incident. Joren stood to the side, looking at him with wide eyes. Prince Stiles groaned, shuffling around in his sleep until he hit one of their glasses. It had been knocked in the night, and the ground had drank the boy’s wine greedily.

Prince Stiles began to stretch awake, opening his eyes and realizing he was in the wood. “What?” He looked over at Derrik, and his mind seemed to slot in the details of the night before. The prince turned a furious scarlet and cast his eyes away, which is when they fell on Joren. “Does someone beat you?” He asked, seeing the bruising across Derrik’s squire. It was refreshing to know that he had even less of a filter when just awoken. “Why are you so wounded?”

“He’s working on being a knight.” Derrik responded for Joren. “What are you doing out here?”

Joren stood taller, and Derrik noticed he had a shirt in his hands. He was using it to wring his hands as he spoke. “Your queen mother bade me to tell you that you’re breaking your fast with her. Lady Erica told me I might find you out here.”

Prince Stiles had struggled into a sitting position, using one of his arms to support his weight. “Is he yours, Prince Derrik?”

“He’s my squire.” Derrik said, feeling the stirrings of nerves at the prospect of eating with his mother. He hadn’t even changed, and he could smell Prince Stiles on him. What would she say to that? He noticed the way that the prince’s mouth quirked up, like a joke was coming to him, and he blurted out, “And no, I don’t beat him.”

“It’s good to know that I have not fallen for a child abuser.” Prince Stiles smiled. It lost Derrik for a moment, the sweet words and the way that he looked at him. Joren shuffled his feet some, drawing him back to the world.

“Is that shirt for me?” He gestured to the article in Joren’s hand. The squire nodded, holding it out for Derrik. It would do little to hide the scent of Prince Stiles, but he could at least look somewhat more dignified.

While he shrugged out of his doublet and into the freeing cotton, Prince Stiles made a strangled sound behind him. He could taste the interest from the prince and remembered how different customs were between wolves and humans. “So, what’s your name? How old are you?” Prince Stiles attempted to make conversation with Joren.

“I’m Joren Baker. I’m eleven.”

Derrik turned to him, frowning. “No, you’re ten.” He knows, because when Joren asked to be made squire, Lord Deaton had noted that the boy was young. Joren had retorted that ten wasn’t that young.

“I was ten.” Joren responded. His scent didn’t waver, and his voice didn’t shake as he disagreed with Derrik. It was progress.

“It was a pleasure to spend time with you, Prince Stiles.” Derrik said to the prince before turning to follow Joren. The words were formality in the peculiar circumstance they were in.

“Call me Stiles.” The prince offered. Derrik turned to look at him, look at the way he sat in the sun and the way his hair had red tones in it and the way he smiled.

Derrik nodded and focused back on Joren. “Why didn’t you tell me about your birth day passing? When is it?” He grilled the boy all the way back to the castle. Joren smelled relieved when they got back to the door, grinning tightly while he bid Derrik farewell.

The door loomed before him, and he knew his mother heard his heart behind it. She allowed him the moments of calming. Derrik knocked on the door when it felt like his head wasn’t swimming.

“Come in, Derrik.” Queen Talia called. He entered her rooms, large and lavish and not at all what she would have chosen for herself. There was a tiny library, a sleeping room and a full eating room. The table was larger than even Laura’s was, and three walls had windows, with colorful silk drapes that flittered in the morning wind.

His mother stood at one of the windows then, looking down and across to the forest. Derrik felt his stomach swoop when he realized that she most likely saw him walk in from the wood. “How was your night?” She asked him.

Even though nothing had happened, Derrik flushed. The boy’s wine didn’t take the night from him. They had kissed once, and then lay on the ground and looked at the stars and pointed out constellations… and fell asleep. “It was fine. How was yours?”

“I spent a majority of it surrounded by the nobility of the Stilinski court.” Though she didn’t say she disliked it, her scent made it clear. “I saw that you danced with Prince Stiles.”

Derrik cast his eyes anywhere besides his mother. The table was empty, and the door to her sleeping quarters was closed. “I did.” He responded.

“I saw that you were the only person he danced with.” She continued. “And that both of you were curiously absent afterwards. You don’t need to tell me that nothing happened, my senses are still intact.” Queen Talia held up her hand to him opening his mouth, and he snapped it shut. “But did you want it to?”

While the wolves had a difference in custom than humans when it came to the body, and sex, even Derrik didn’t want to discuss that side of his life with his mother. He made a distressed sound, an embarrassed, high whine. Queen Talia smiled at him, big like he had admitted something.

She walked over to him, a warble coming from her throat. It didn’t translate into human speak, but Derrik understood it all the same. He could feel the glee and satisfaction rolling off of her. Her hands came up to cup his face, and she scented him, rubbing her cheeks against his and his hair and his neck, crooning all the while.

“Mother…” He trailed off. The attention was enjoyable, but it was almost worse than teasing.

Queen Talia straightened up as soon as he spoke. The smile was still dancing around in her eyes, and she still held his head, but she was serious when she asked, “Are you _sure_?”

And Derrik knew that he couldn’t fidget or moan his way out of answering. That it was important. It didn’t take a moment for him to reach his answer though. “Yes.”

“I’m so happy for you, my little pup.” She whispered. Derrik could feel her joy bleed into his mood as well. He tilted his face down as she went to kiss his cheek.

Once his mother moved away from him, Derrik surveyed the empty table. “I thought I was eating with you?”

“You are.” Queen Talia insisted. “Everyone is, I just wanted a few moments alone with you.” He could hear his family coming, if he strained his ears. One set of the feet moved faster than all others, like they were running in the castle. Derrik focused on the heartbeat, and realized –

“Oh, so it’s not uncouth to roll around in your intended’s clothes now?” Erica burst into the room, laughing breathlessly and already jesting. “I bet that’s not the only thing you want to roll around in.”

“Erica!” Derrik’s mother reprimanded, while Derrik did his best to hide his wince. If this meal didn’t end him, at least it would make Stiles laugh later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOh it's finally happening!!!
> 
> Next update: 4/28


	13. Allison

Allison had stowed the battle logs behind one of the desks in the temple, a week before she called Prince Scot to it. Even that little act left her nervous, her heart beat pounding in such a way that she thought that Lord Peter was certain to hear her even two wings away. She didn’t look in it and slipped back out through the tapestry to the library. In her skirts, Allison had placed a small note that she intended to give to Prince Scot when they ate that night.

At supper that night, King Gerard and Lord Peter were both present. Allison jolted guiltily when the lord looked at her and she wondered if all he smelled was fear. She hoped all that he smelled was fear and that he couldn’t also tell what she was doing, that she was still hunting after. Prince Scot had looked at her in concern and Allison made herself smile weakly back.

It must not have settled him enough, for he asked her to take a twilight stroll with him. Her prince father had allowed it but could not be present, so he sent two of his knights, one walking behind them and the other ahead. They were both far enough that Allison felt that their human ears wouldn’t overhear.

“Is everything alright, princess?” Prince Scot asked, before they had even cleared the first turn.

Allison nodded. “Yes, of course, I think my nerves are frayed for the celebration.” Her heart flipped with the lie, but she prayed Prince Scot not call her on it.

“Is it due to me?” His skin looked a little pale, and his eyes were stricken.

“No!” It hurt to think she may have insinuated that he was a problem. “Why ever would you think that?”

Prince Scot turned a bright scarlet, looking towards the bushes. “At your celebration, King Gerard told me… It would be the time to announce our plans to marry. We’ll officially be telling the court that we are going to…”

She placed her other hand on his arm, overlinking her fingers, and leaned on him. His warmth was a comfort as the sun fell, taking its heat with it. “I look forward to that greatly.” Allison admitted, shyly.

Her confession broke the fear in Prince Scot’s face. He grinned that easy-going smile, the one that told Allison that things would be okay. As he smiled, she took her left hand off of him and grabbed her note from the skirts. It left a problem, as he did not wear a doublet that she may tuck the paper into a pocket.

Instead, Prince Scot lay his hand over hers and took the paper in his hand. She couldn’t be certain that the guards didn’t notice, but it would most like look a smitten girl giving a love note. Prince Scot even smiled like it was that, a pleased gleam in his eye.

They spent the rest of the walk discussing his run on the moon, and what type of food she would like at her celebration, and what kinds she had at festivals for her birth before, and what Prince Scot had.

\--

Allison had planned the time for her to meet with Prince Scot when King Gerard would be taking lunch with Lord Peter. In the privacy of his quarters, after all, and the temple was above the loud kitchen, below them a floor and almost a castle away.

When she ducked into the temple though, smiling at Prince Scot’s awed face, she still wanted to make sure. Allison darted over to him, picking up his hands in a most improper way.

“Will you do something for me?” She breathed out. She imagined the face of Death, so dark and foreboding, to be Lord Peter’s.

“Anything.” Prince Scot promised. He shuffled closer to her, a blush on his cheeks and his pupils wide.

“Can you hear Lord Peter?” Allison asked.

It seemed to snap him out of whatever trance had taken him, the confusion at the question. His brow furrowed, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips. Allison waited, watching him expectantly. “No? Why would –”

“Are you sure?” She pressed. “Not his heart beat, or his speech, or his movements?”

Prince Scot shook his head and Allison could almost hear a creak as her muscles relaxed. She dropped his hands, even though it pained her to do so, and moved to the podium where she had stored the battle logs. She opened them up on the small table, feeling somewhat areligious as she poured over murder under Life’s watchful gaze.

“What’s that?” Prince Scot asked.

Allison was flipping through them quick, well-versed in the battles that her king grandfather had won. She knew of them, but she wanted to make sure her hunch was correct before responding. “They’re battle logs.” She said simply, when she had found what she wanted. “They tell about the tactics used in fights, so that Kings may look to them for guidance.”

“Okay?” He was not following.

“Did you know that my grandfather has never lost a battle? Not one.” Allison put sticks from the bowl before her in the books to mark her pages. “The first battle he led – the Battle of Cresting – he won. Siege of Quivering Wood, won. Battle of Willow Brook, Battle of the Marshes. All of them. Do you know how, my prince?”

Prince Scot shook his head, watching her carefully. “He never tells the enemy he’s coming!” Allison slammed down one of the books. The resulting noise startled them both, and she continued at a quieter timber. “King Gerard has always used surprise tactics. Whether he doesn’t tell them which side he’s on, or where he is, or what his men are doing. He’ll shoot down messages and hide his men in the woods. He sends his, his spies and finds out when the enemy is weakest and only then, will he strike.”

Her breath was coming out in pants, and Prince Scot looked at her all wary-like. Allison realized that he still had no idea what she was on about, so she attempted to settle her mind and approach it more simplistically. “If my king grandfather’s pattern is to be believed, if he wanted to make war with the Hales, he wouldn’t go around raiding villages with his sigil on the men.”

“He would find a way to strike quick and would take them out as well as he could.” Her prince looked up at her, finally getting it. “But that’s not what he did.”

Allison nodded. “Because he doesn’t want to make war with the Hales.”

“Then what does he want?”

“That’s the question.” She responded, wondering as well. Her mind drew back to the only conversation between Lord Peter and King Gerard she had heard. King Gerard has scoffed at the idea of the wolf healing, but it was something that was offered.

“Money?” Prince Scot suggested.

“No, our coffers are full. The crown has little debt, and even if it didn’t, I don’t doubt King Gerard could muster the money from somewhere.” She hesitated. Allison knew if she showed all her cards to Prince Scot, her cover may be blown. She loved him, and thought he was gallant and kind, but also far too brave and bold. If he knew of Lord Peter’s words to her, it was no doubt the whole castle would know when he confronted the man. “Can a beta turn a human?”

“You think the king wants to be a wolf?” Prince Scot caught on quickly.

She shrugged. “I am unsure. As he grows older, the prospect of living longer must appeal.”

“To answer your question, no, Lord Peter would not be able to turn him.” Her prince frowned. “But what would not charm is having to submit to an alpha.”

“But I know of several beta wolves that live in our country, and not one Alpha.”

“Alphas don’t live in Stilinski either, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t have one. If you’ve been bitten, you submit under your Alpha or die—or submit to another Alpha. Most don’t make you follow them and are completely fine to allow you to make your own pack bonds.” Prince Scot looked to the shrine behind her. “But some aren’t. I can’t imagine an Alpha wanting to step down in power to their beta.”

“Unless there was no Alpha to step down.” Allison pointed out. Prince Scot looked tangled at her words. “Unless my king grandfather decides to rid himself of the Alpha before they could become a problem.”

“There are no Alphas in the Argent kingdom. One would have to be brought, and that would mean that they would have to willingly give him the bite. And Lord Peter would gain nothing from it, so I don’t see why it would help him.”

“He may be tricked to think he would become an Alpha.” Allison could see how the man could desire that. He enjoyed the spotlight, enjoyed exerting control over others.

Prince Scot snorted, looking embarrassed when her gaze snapped up to him. “I don’t think anyone could trick Lord Peter. It’s as if he is always playing chess, with his mind and with everyone else. It’s like everyone is a big game to him.”

Allison agreed on that count. “They… could be tricking each other? Mayhaps Lord Peter wants King Gerard to _think_ that he wants to be Alpha, and King Gerard is wanting him to think he wants to be a wolf.”

“I thought King Gerard actually wanted to be a wolf?” Prince Scot sounded so confused, and they look at each other for a moment, and then they were laughing. It was such a jumble, so confusing and somewhat terrifying, that the laughter came easy.

After her breath came back to her, Allison swiped at her face. “This is…”

“A lot,” Prince Scot said summarily. She nodded. “Perhaps we should set it aside until after your celebration?” Allison could tell that the suggestion made the prince cringe, probably made him feel craven, but she was relieved. The world would not come down if they breathed for a moment, and now that she had learned what she needed, Essa could return the book.

Prince Scot had kissed her knuckles before she slipped back into the library. That is where her princess mother found her, curled up on settee with a tome in hand. Allison looked up at her, completely innocent. “There you are,” Princess Victoria had always spoken in a cold, perfunctory tone. “The seamstress has just finished altering the dresses you picked out. I would like for you to decide which one you will wear for the banquet, so accessories can begin to be arranged.”

“Of course, mother.” Allison responded. She stood, setting the book on the small table before her. She trusted the servants to see it back to its correct shelf.

Princess Victoria swept from the room when she saw Allison stand. Allison followed after, striding quickly to keep up with her princess mother. Most any servant they passed flinched from her, and Allison understood why. It was like a ghost in these halls, a mother of Princess Lydia, the lost princess.

When they got to Allison’s chambers, Essa was waiting. There were four dresses lain out on the bed for her. Essa helped her to change between each while her princess mother sat at her tiny, glass eating table.

The first was a red dress, picked out after Prince Scot’s family sigil. It was a pure red, with a gold hem. The sleeves swooped out, to make her arms look more delicate, and the neckline was a simple curve. Allison had liked it in theory, but it did not feel like a celebration dress. She would wear it any day of week, perhaps she would wear it when she first saw her prince, as a kindness.

Another dress Princess Victoria dismissed out of hand. It was a mossy green, with no sleeves and a tall neckline. The collar hugged her neck and ruffled out. She felt like she was going to battle in it, so constrictive as it was. It took Allison a moment to realize why her princess mother said no to it, and then she understood it was due to the color of the dress – the Hale sigil.

The third was beautiful, one that Allison loved deeply when she looked at it. It was a pastel blue. There was a sash along her waist, a thin rope of pretty blue. Along the belt hung tiny jewels. They were like opals, opaque, milky and blue. It also had no sleeves but stopped before it reached her neck. Instead, it dipped below, far below, to show off her breasts when she breathed too deeply. The back was also fashioned that way.

Allison only tried on the fourth for her princess mother’s benefit. It was a summer orange, bright and warm. There was yellow fading in and out in stripes along the skirt. It had a long sleeve, billowing like a pirate, and it came off her shoulders so that it hung on her arms. It felt open and breezy. She could see how easy it would be to spend a day in this dress, how cool she would feel even in the midday sun.

However, she looked at the other dress. It felt more… womanly, mature. Allison could see wearing a necklace with an opal piece to hang between her breasts. She imagined how it would glint in the sun, and when she danced with Prince Scot, he would glance down at the shimmer and _stare_.

She chose the third dress. And Princess Victoria, one who would once frown and say, “Absolutely not.”, simply nodded.

\--

Festival day came without any hiccups on Allison’s part. She had not seen or spoken to Lord Peter in the week leading up. Her opal necklace was easy to secure, as was kohl for her eyes and reddener for her lips.

She wore her hair up, the way she wanted when Prince Scot had first arrived. It was one large bun, typical to how she had seen Queen Melissa wear it, but instead it was fashioned of baby blue cloth. There were false opals that were sewn into the fabric, pretty enough to glint but they would not hold up to a measured eye.

The morning was time with her family, for once everyone all together. Princess Katherine gifted her a clock, quoting that time was running out for her, as it was for all women once they hit that age, but even the words could not hurt her today. King Gerard had her fashioned a lovely set of rings, the rings that would bind her and Prince Scot. Her princess mother gave her a sweet perfume and swore that it was sold by a wolf, so it would not overpower Prince Scot’s senses.

Her prince father kissed her head and gave her a book. It was a common gift from him, and she thanked him graciously. After breaking fast, they began to accept others into for the court. Allison had asked for the celebration to be in the gardens. The ladies and lords of court milled about the flowers. A man with a lyre and a low voice played. Two women with bells attached to their ankles danced next to him.

There were servants carrying trays of food for people to pick at. Allison worked through her courtesies, sneaking small pastries while saying her greetings to those she had to say them to. She found Prince Scot talking to a knight, of all people, a small pile of cured meat in his palm. He smiled when he saw her, and she watched his eyes track her body.

Typically, the quick glance would make her flush but today, it only made her feel powerful. Allison took him to dance, letting him twirl her around under the watchful gaze of her family. She pressed as close as she dared, following the steps of the court dances.

Sometimes, she traded partners as the dance progressed, but her eyes never left Prince Scot. He held an appeal to her that seemed magnified today. At one point, when some of the lords and ladies had gone to eat lunch, she snuck her hand between his shirt and skin on his neck.

She felt his intake of breath, and she pulled her hand out slowly. Allison tilted her face to look up at him, and Prince Scot looked lost on her. It took the breath from her body. She pressed her front to his, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat, and whispered in his ear, “You should go to temple tonight, at midnight.”

The song changed, and then she was spun away by someone else, dancing in groups of four. But she had said what she wanted and couldn’t help the thrill that pulled at her. The rest of the day passed in a blur.

King Gerard made the official toast to her, and then the official announcement of their engagement. The court had thunderous applause at his words. Her father danced with her some, and she ate enough sweets to feel sick. The sky began to look bruised, and the singer had been changed out twice. The ladies and lords started to lag. Allison thanked everyone for attending. There were people who stayed for an hour or so more, as less and less plates were brought forth. The voice stopped singing, and instead thrummed along the lyre in an almost non-melodic tune. The dancers no longer jingled their legs.

She made her way back upstairs, shock setting in at what she had said to Prince Scot. Allison had no intention of backing out of what she wanted. Essa helped undress her, and she asked for a more modest night gown than the scant shirt she usually wore. Essa regarded her for a moment before acquiescing.

Allison lay in her bed for a few hours, watching the moon rise through her window and the moonlight illuminate her room. The world felt magical to her then. When she was certain it was high enough, she slipped from her covers and out her door.

The castle was mostly silent. Even at this hour, most servants did not have work. She would find none scurrying with a food plate, not a maid rushing by with a bundle of linen, or one carrying chamber pots. She could hear ruckus in the kitchens, as she neared, but no one crossed her path. There was a moment of fear, that Lord Peter would move out from the shadow, but that thought stilled and died inside her. Let him step out while she was here, she would find a way to hurt him for it.

The fire was out in the library. The room had dust floating in the moonlight and the nook where the hallway was looked darker than the blackest ink. It did not frighten her. The stone wall was a familiar touch to her hand, and the bricks beneath her feet had been treaded hundreds of times.

Prince Scot waited for her at the end. In the temple, surrounded by his gods, and the candles flickering on each tall table. His face danced in the shadow and he turned to her to speak when she arrived.

Allison did not give him time to utter words, did not feel as if there was time for it. She strode over to him and pressed her mouth against his. This is against custom, part of her brain warned her. The bells that were ringing in her mind just urged her on, though. His lips were warm and wet and soft and made her stomach clench. She found herself placing her hands in his hair, a noise coming from her chest.

After a second of shock, Prince Scot reared back from her. She kept her hands in his hair, unwilling to pull far away. “Princess!” He gasped. Prince Scot’s eyes darted around the room as his cheeks lit up.

She slipped her hands from his hair and down his arms. He took her hands easily, and the solid warmth welcomed her. “Prince,” she responded, partly joking and completely soft. Allison looked down where their hands met. “You are my intended. You will be my only intended.” She swore.

“However, I don’t know what’s going on. Why my king grandfather is doing what he’s doing, or what ever Lord Peter is doing here. I don’t know if I have the power to fix it.” Allison admitted. “If something happens… I don’t want to wait a thousand years for this.” She drew his hand up to her chest, fitting it between her breasts to feel her heart.

Prince Scot sucked in air quickly then, gaze flickering between where she had placed his hand and her face. Allison waited for him, watched his face change from shock to want. When she was certain that he wanted her as well, she pressed forward again. He kissed her back timidly for a moment and Allison was certain that both of them were new to this.

But it felt good, and right, and her body felt alive when pressed up against him. It was her aunt, Princess Katherine, to thank for knowing anything about a man. She had regaled Allison several lewd stories about her trips to a whorehouse, and it was that knowledge that served her as she drew her hands down Prince Scot’s front.

She found him hard against his pants, and he jolted when she pressed her hand against his length. Allison had to pull back from their kissing to fumble open his drawstring. Prince Scot stalked her with his eyes, pupils blown wide. He was somehow soft and hard in her hand, the skin a velvet and increasingly heated.

Allison rubbed at his length, moving her hand in experiment while they opened their mouths to each other. It caused his member to twitch, which made her feel liquid heat all over. Dampness began to spread between her legs.

Prince Scot had kept his hands in courtesy. One was in her hair, and the other on her arm. Allison replaced them, taking the one that was in her hair and placing it on her breast. When he squeezed, tingles shot from the spot all through her body. The other, she helped to push up her night gown and place on her upper thigh. His thumb swiped at the wiry hair covering her. The closeness made her hands clench, which caused Prince Scot to groan into her mouth.

In that moment, it was too little and too much. She felt as if her skin was too tight, and her soul too big. Allison pushed away from her prince’s mouth. “Please, Scot.” She threw his title to the wind, feeling as if it was not prince and princess here, just two bodies who wanted each other. “Please.”

He panted into her mouth. “Anything.” He promised, and so Allison pulled them both down to the floor. The stone was clean, but hard. It cut into her flesh in ways that would bruise, but in the moment, it mattered little.

Her legs fell open to allow Prince Scot to settle between them. The angle made her wrist hurt, as she still had her hand on his length. She pulled his body down until it covered hers, and he began to kiss her neck. The sensitive wetness of his mouth on her tender skin made her legs twitch.

When she moved her hand away, his manhood pressed against her wet spot, separated from entering her by a thin cotton nightgown. Both rutted at the sensation. It lit something in Allison, the need to have him then, and she began to pull at her dress to remove it between them. Prince Scot had both hands on the stone now, attempting to keep his weight from her, and used it to lean off her. The loss of heat brought a whimper past her lips.

“Allison,” Prince Scot warned. The nervous disposition returned to his face, though he leaked down onto her dress.

“It’s okay.” She responded. Her body ached when she looked at him. “I want this. You can hear I want this; you can smell I want this.” Allison knew little of wolves, only what she could read up about them from their libraries, but she knew some. She pressed her head up, exposing her neck to Prince Scot. “Please.”

She heard him curse, low and filthy and very unprince-like. For some reason, it enticed her more. This secret side of him that she had never seen before. She wondered if he would curse more, if she could pull things that weren’t so gallant and courteous from him.

Prince Scot began to work at her neck, always backing off before his teeth could leave a bruise. He nosed at her shoulder and bit at her jaw, moaned against her. Allison managed to pull her dress up past her stomach, taking Prince Scot’s hand and placing it on her naked breast then. It brought him back down on her, and his length between her legs.

It took a moment to get her hand between them, to wrap around him and pull him into her. The second he breached her, both panted loudly and Prince Scot rocked his hips forward. He slid in more, and a cold sweat broke out against her skin.

“Please,” Allison begged, and he complied. She said as he moved inside her, feeling more glorious than any pillow she used. She whispered, when she felt him tense. When she locked her legs around him and could feel the heat of his seed inside her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spice
> 
> 4/1


	14. Stiles

His king father had seen him off at dawn, eyes strangely misty. Stiles was riding with Derrik and his family back up to the Hale castle, to be there when the announcement went out to the people of his intentions with the Hale prince. Their entourage was large but quick, teeming with wolves that were able to carry luggage easier.

Stiles had been set on a horse, next to Prince Conan, who had talked the first day nonstop over the beauty and purity of flowers and how they bloomed. It was said in such a way that made Stiles blush.

Derrik had walked next to him most of the day. But he was quiet, watching his family. It was a new side for Stiles to see, how he withdrew around the louder voices of Erica, and Prince Conan, and Princess Cora.

Princess Cora had yet to warm up to him, still avoiding him and hissing when he got too close. It made Stiles smile now. It felt like a secret joke between them, and he was fairly certain she would not strike him if he approached her. Fairly certain.

When they stopped for the day, far enough away that Stiles could no longer see the castle, his tent was constructed right next to Derrik’s. It made him blush, and the omegas that erected it grinned at his embarrassment. Joren, who reminded him so of Regin, had taken it upon himself to see to Stiles as well as Derrik. So, when he went in to rub some salve on his thighs from riding, his belongings were already there.

They had given him a fairly nice tent, though dull in color. But all others were also the grey. It had a small table, for eating, and a large bed. The furs on it looked soft and new, and his hands slid along them like silk. Stiles had brought furred coats for when they arrived up in the Hale lands, but Prince Conan had told him that he could borrow some of his when he needed to. Derrik had laughed then, low, and Stiles pointed out that his wardrobe was fine.

Stiles had managed to spread the salve on his legs, red and aggressive welts along his inner thighs, and shove back on his pants to waddle and find where the Hale family was eating. They were sitting outside Queen Talia’s tent, still grey but larger. It didn’t stand out so much that Stiles thought he would be able to find it again.

Joren stood to the side of the fire, a jug of water in his hand. Rabbits roasted over the spit, and Stiles was certain that they were caught within the day. There was also a cauldron over the fire, with the smell of onion and garlic and potato wafting out of it. Derrik had a spot next to him on the ground pillows.

He had a cup of water in his hand before he finished sitting, Joren darting nervously to make sure he had it. The boy’s eyes flicked to the Queen and Stiles could tell she frightened him. Stiles thought Queen Talia would frighten him as well, if he hadn’t been raised around wolves or known her for the majority of his life.

The night passed quickly. Prince Conan plucked a tune on the lyre, apparently a village song about Princess Cora hiding in her wolf skin. The princess frowned and hid her face while the rest of the family laughed. Afterwards, she belted out a tune about Prince Conan, one that talked of his multiple paramours and how he loved to visit brothels.

Erica had laughed so hard she cried at that one, and in embarrassment, Prince Conan had tackled his little sister. They rolled around in the dirt, and Malia had joined in enthusiastically. Derrik grabbed Stiles and helped to move him away from the brawl. It was not something that he would have thought to do, but he was grateful. And if the warmth spread through him at Derrik’s touch, then it may be lost on the wolves on the ground.

Derrik had walked him home that night, with Joren darting ahead of them to put out their night clothes. The stars were so much brighter than they were in the castle, and the woods around them quieted as the creatures went to sleep. Stiles could hear the laughter and hoots of the wolves around them.

They had stood at the in-betweens of their tents for a moment, and Derrik promised him to show him all the flowers around the Hale castle. When Stiles bade him good night, Derrik had stepped up to him and kissed him softly on the cheek. Stiles made a small noise of pleasure and watched the wolf’s eyes darken.

Stiles had moved closer then, lingering his lips over Derrik’s. A whine came up from one of their throats and they were kissing. Stiles’ tongue came out to swipe at Derrik’s lip. Derrik placed his hands onto Stiles’ arms and squeezed, a feeling mimicked in his lungs.

A particularly close laugh had them jumping apart. Stiles had giggled, and then gone into his tent and blew out all the candles. He lay on his bed naked and palmed at himself, taking his manhood in hand and thinking of the wolf next door. _Gods, I hope he can hear me_ , was the thought that sent him over, panting and sweaty on his furs.

The next morning, when he exited his tent, Derrik looked at him and Stiles knew he had listened. It made his heart stutter and his cock swell again. Looking at the horse he’d be riding again though dashed away any filthy thoughts.

Derrik walked with him again but kept the reigns of the mare in his hand. Once every while, his hand would brush against Stiles upper thigh, causing his breath to hitch. Prince Conan continued on speaking to him as if he couldn’t tell that Stiles was having a crisis, but Erica would sometimes dart out of the forest and give him a look.

It was also the first day he had seen one of the Hales stark naked. Lady Malia had been in her coyote form for the day, and when dinner rolled around, slightly earlier than the day before, she just shifted and sat on her pillow nude. Rabbit juices ran down her front and onto her belly. Stiles did his level best not to look at her, causing Lord Isaac to laugh. He seemed to note discomfort faster than any of the other wolves.

Queen Talia had explained that wolves have a different view on nudity, but she would make Lady Malia dress if it would ease his mind. Stiles had insisted it was okay. He wanted to be okay with whatever the wolf customs decreed, and besides, there was something freeing about removing the restraints of clothing.

Not as if he would do it. They were already too far north for him to think of taking off all his clothes lest he bathe or fuck.

After dinner, he had plans to limp back to his tent. Perhaps Derrik would accompany him, and he could lean on the wolf. Or maybe Derrik would carry him. Instead, Prince Conan had clapped him on the back and said, “Boyd and I have a little wager going on.”

“You have a wager with everyone,” Erica said from where she sat next to Lady Malia.

“As it should be,” Prince Conan responded, without missing a beat. “Anyway, I told him that while wolves were fast, horses could surely be faster. So, I need a riding partner. To ensure to Boyd that it’s not simply my horse that is good, or his speed.”

Stiles balked at his words, his thighs throbbing at the mere suggestion. Prince Conan pressed onwards. “I figured your match could be Derrik.” Derrik merely grunted where he sat, flashing a set of pearly teeth at Prince Conan. It seemed he was up for the challenge.

And that was something exciting. It was more of a reason to spend time with Derrik, and even if his thighs hurt, if he beat Derrik, the wolf would never live that down. It was appealing. Prince Conan’s grin grew bigger when he realized he had snagged Stiles.

“Wait,” Erica said. “You’ve got the odds rigged.”

“I do not.” Prince Conan retorted.

“You do,” She insisted, rising to her feet. Erica dusted her hands on her skirts, leaving a smear of rabbit grease on her dress. “You’ve got the bulkiest wolves against two trained riders. I’ll go, too.”

Prince Conan threw his hands up. “Then we’ll need a third human!” His eyes were already scanning the field, but Stiles was uncertain on if he was going to be able to find another human.

“Joren can come.” Erica pointed to the young squire, who looked like he was attempting to hide behind the tent’s curtains. “You need a handicap.”

“Fine,” Prince Conan snapped. The weight of his hand was gone from Stiles’ shoulder then, and he shot his cousin a dark look. He stalked away, calling for an omega to saddle his horse.

Stiles called to Joren, and the boy crept forward. “Will you make up two horses for us?” After a moment, he talked back to the squire, “You do know how to ride, correct?”

Joren scowled, a look that Stiles had seen on Derrik’s face a multitude of times. It made him smile. Derrik had told him Joren’s story one day in the grove, and he watched the boy as he began to mirror Derrik more and more. The prince had confessed to him that he thought Joren was frightened of him, and Stiles could see that at one point, but now it seemed like the squire was devoted. “I know how to ride.” He said stubbornly.

“Good.” Stiles said, making no note of the boy’s sharpness. He saw Joren’s timidness and thought he could do with a little more edge. “Then go saddle our horses.”

He hadn’t paid attention to when Derrik had risen, but now he heard his voice in his ear. “If you want, I can tell Conan to back off.” The words made his body feel shivery and his shoulders hiked up some at the sensation.

Stiles turned to look at the prince. His voice was kind, but his eyes twinkled. A smile on his face made him look younger, smoothing out the furrows on his tan face. “Why? Are you afraid we’ll win?”

“I could spook your horse in a ditch, I highly doubt it would outrun me.” Derrik responded.

“Spooking is against the rules.” Stiles stepped closer to the prince. He could smell the sweat from the day’s journey on him.

“Now, where did Conan say that?”

They were almost chest to chest, both grinning wildly. It made Stiles feel silly with happiness, that his intended was as fiercely competitive as he. He stood there, his breath causing his chest to brush up against Derrik’s, until Erica called out. “If you two are going to have a romp, could you at least wait until the bet is settled?”

Derrik took several steps back with her words, cheeks going red. Stiles could feel his own burning and he couldn’t keep his eyesight on his intended. Erica walked over to them, “We’ve agreed that the wolves can have a handicap as well. Derrik’s to stay in his human skin when we race.”

“I can still beat a horse.” Derrik responded.

Stiles scoffed. “We’ll see.”

Joren had readied the horse Stiles rode in the day, which was good. It wouldn’t do to try and make friends with a new one. Prince Conan rode the mare that was his, a fine beast with white hair and a honey complexion of a coat. “We’ll start at the edge of camp.” Prince Conan decided.

“And end where?” Erica asked as she began to remove her clothing. Stiles studied Lord Boyd’s carefully blank face, how his eyes looked over his adopted sister before moving away.

“There was a bridge for the river about half a mile back.” Stiles said. “We could end there.”

“Sounds like a perfect idea.” Prince Conan spared Stiles a smile before making his mare trot towards the outskirts of the tents.

Joren had fixed himself a common horse up, probably having to have argued with an omega over it. It had a plain saddle, enough for riding but not comfortably, and the hair looked to be unbrushed for at least a month. When he climbed atop it, it whickered and dipped its head, but did not seem to be bothered. It was a gentle beast, then.

Stiles waited for Joren to be settled before kicking his horse up to follow Prince Conan. Joren came in lurches behind him, huffing and squeezing the reins tight in his hands, scared to let the horse move.

When they got close to the entrance, Stiles leaned over. “The way to make the horse go fast is to kick your feet into its sides. Every trained horse knows what it means.”

“Well, what if it isn’t trained?” Joren asked nervously.

“Why would you have saddled an untrained horse?”

“I didn’t!” Joren seemed afraid that his possible mistake would get him into trouble.

Stiles just smiled. “If you didn’t saddle an untrained horse, then I reckon that one is trained.” He was hopeful that his logic made the boy more comfortable, and that he was speaking truth. It would be horrid for the squire to go flying listening to ill advice by Stiles.

He saw the three wolves make to the woods. Erica was a deep, chocolate brown wolf that was thin with gold eyes. Lord Boyd had a grey coat, and stood a half a foot taller than Erica, as well as many inches wider. Derrik stood among them, and Stiles wondered what his coat may look like.

Prince Conan had his horse to a little dance in front of Stiles and the squire. “We only need to beat two of them to win.” He said, eyes dancing. “I’ll lose my horse for a day if we can’t do that, so please try to win.”

Stiles only nodded; his eyes drawn to the wolves that were several hundred feet away. The power that was quiet in the wolf form intimidated him. Joren seemed to feel the same, his unease causing his horse to shuffle under him. “It’ll start on three.” Prince Conan said, not bothering to raise his voice for the wolves. Doubtless, they heard him.

“One,” He called out.

“Two,” Stiles tightened his hands on his reins, leaning down close to his mare’s neck.

“Three,” Prince Conan was still speaking when Stiles dug his heels into his horse. She set off in a gallop, faster than Stiles has ever gone before. His aches and pains seemed to vanish in the exhilaration, and he urged his mare forward.

Prince Conan shot ahead of him, still. Stiles could see him riding up ahead on a mare like light itself. He slammed his reins down on his horse’s neck, hearing her pant from exertion. His goal was to keep the human prince in his sight, so that even if they lost, it would not be by much.

It was hard to imagine that the wolves could move faster than the mare, especially as Prince Conan became nothing more than a blur of colors. Stiles felt a laugh bubbling up, the wind in his hair and dust at his back.

Then there was a sharp crack! and Stiles saw Prince Conan and his horse go down. He galloped up to them, pulling his steed to a stop quickly. The honey mare had a scorpion stinger sticking from her, large enough that it must have come from a shifter.

“Prince Conan!” Stiles cried. The horse seemed to be crushing part of him, and his face had taken a grey pallor. Another stinger came from the woods to their left, narrowly missing Stiles.

It spurred him to action, and he began to attempt to shove the horse away from the prince. He just watched Stiles do it, eyes shocked and out of focus. A few seconds after he began to push, arms already protesting, he saw two wolves zip past him into the woods on the other side of the road. They came with snarling, and Stiles could hear when they met the attackers.

Derrik came out of the wood a moment later, chest heaving. He took one look at Stiles, on his knees with hands on the mare, and came over to him. Derrik moved the horse a few feet easily, “Get into the woods.” He told Stiles, before loping off to join his cousins.

Stiles put Prince Conan’s arm around him shoulders, placing his arm at his waist. It took a moment for him to get the prince to sit up, his right leg bloody and bent. Prince Conan’s breath was ragged and his head lolled along Stiles’ shoulder. Instead of attempting to get the man all the way standing, Stiles began to drag him in a crouched position to the trees.

Joren came upon them when Stiles was finally off the road and in the grass next to the trees. “To me,” Stiles hissed, watching the young squire scramble off his horse. The old mare stood there, tail flicking and whinnying while the sound of carnage came from the woods across the road.

The boy helped Stiles finish getting Prince Conan to safety. The prince had begun to shake and sweat, his shock finally wearing off it appeared. Stiles stayed in front of him, leaning him up on the tree. Prince Conan grabbed onto Stiles’ doublet, fingers digging into the fabric. His pupils were almost nothing in his eyes, so like Derrik’s. “It’s going to be okay.” Stiles found himself saying. “They’ll fix it. It’s okay, it’s okay.”

Joren was looking around the trees that shielded them, eyes fixed where the sounds of fighting originated. He cast his eyes over the other two humans, noting the knife at Prince Conan’s belt. The squire plucked it out of its holder. “To protect us,” He explained. Stiles recognized the blade, the one that Erica offered him. Joren held it like he planned to skin a rabbit with it, instead of kill a man.

Stiles could feel his heart beating away in his chest. He wondered how many attackers there were, and what they wanted. He knew at least one was a shifter, so he hoped that there was only one. It scared him to the core that one of the wolves could be getting gutted right now, while he sat here and murmured placating words to Prince Conan.

A howl went up, lupine and clear, and it made all of Stiles’ hair stand up. He knew it was to get other wolves to the scene, and that meant that the three needed help. Joren looked to Stiles, eyes wide as saucers, and shifted the knife in his hand. There was a high-pitched scream.

He felt useless sitting here, watching Prince Conan be half-lucid and struggling to stay awake. The prince’s fingers were still tangled in his shirt and they moved restlessly. There was a sound at the tree line.

Stiles shifted closer to Prince Conan, throat closing up. Joren and him both looked to the grass in front of them. A haggard boy, maybe two or three years older than Joren, came barreling into their hiding space. Joren jumped in front of Stiles and Prince Conan. The other boy had a cut along his skull, with half of his face covered in blood. He wore rags, and was dirty from head to toe, and his eyes glowed a strange purple.

“Give me your gold, and I’ll be on my way.” He said, eyes darting out to where Erica and Derrik and Lord Boyd were. “I don’t want no fighting, just gold.”

“You’re not getting nothing!” Joren said, waving the knife in front of him. “You’ve attacked the Queen’s son, and all you’re getting is the rope.”

The boy’s lip pulled up in a snarl. Stiles looked to his hands, where bloodied claws were protruding. His heart hurt, wondering which of the wolves he snagged. “Joren!” Stiles said to try and pull in the boy. “We’ll give you what we have, but it’s not much.”

Stiles reached into his pocket, taking out the small bag of gold pareens from his pocket. His father gave it to him should he ever have the need for it, and he doubted that he would ever have a need greater than this. The boy tried to shove past Joren to get to Stiles and he could see his mistake then.

Joren lashed out to the feral shifter, a cry of protecting Stiles. The next moments seemed to slow to nothing. The knife managed to cut the other boy’s skin near the shoulder and blood welled up. The boy snapped at the pain, his focus off Stiles, as he whirled to face the squire.

His hands went up and Joren tried to pull his knife back for his next attack. It was halfway back to raised when the shifter struck, his claws raking across Joren’s neck and opening a fount of blood. “ _ **NO!**_ ” Stiles screamed.

He wrenched himself from Prince Conan, horror making him feel dizzy. The blade fell from Joren and the way he looked at Stiles – so shocked and confused – before he fell back. Stiles didn’t care if the shifter turned his claws on him, because Joren was hurt and needed help.

Stiles more felt the roar than heard it, the way the ground and trees shook. Derrik came through the trees, throwing himself at the shifter and rolling around in the dirt with him. The sounds coming from Derrik’s chest sounded far away to Stiles’ ears, as he crawled over Joren.

Joren looked up at him while Stiles placed his hands against his throat. The blood was hot and slippery and made it near impossible for his hands to find a hold. Stiles did his best to cover all the wounds, the gashes growing wide as Joren struggled to breath. “No, no, no,” Stiles cried softly as he leaned over the boy.

Blood began to trickle from Joren’s mouth, and he opened it a few times, blinking up at Stiles. He could feel it as Joren’s chest stopped rising, watched as his eyes lost their sparkle. Stiles sat there, holding onto the squire’s neck even when the blood began to be tacky, not crying but just saying, “No, no, please no.” underneath his breath.

He was distantly aware that at some point, the rest of the wolves came running up. He thinks Queen Talia removed him from the body, the one who carried him back to the tents. Stiles didn’t see where Prince Conan went, and didn’t look for any of the wolves. An omega made sure he was washed, but it did not take away the sensation of how the blood felt.

Stiles didn’t sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day late but i mean to do four days apart (so next will be on 4/6)
> 
> this one was very, very hard to write. I wrote this chapter in...January? early February?? and took off almost all of February to just decompress


	15. Lydia

Lydia had begun worrying that Sovereign Kali was growing agitated. She had spoken little to the woman alpha and had little desire to speak to her again. But when they took supper with the rest of the Sovereigns, she had started to snap more, withdraw into her pack, and snarl even at her Alpha mate. Parrish had said nothing when Lydia pointed it out, but she could feel his thread of worry.

Now, she was eating privately with Sovereign Deucalion. He did that with her occasionally, would sit and eat a few sips of soup or meat and talk of their journey. When Lydia had brought up her concerns, the Sovereign was silent for a minute.

“She has not expressed this to me.” He said. Lydia knew that Sovereign Kali wasn’t just drawn to the idea of land – there was also a favor between the two alphas that had to be settled. “But I will look into it.”

The promise let her ease back some. Parrish had T’ara or Vargas with her every moment, including Ser Whittemore, so it was not that she had to fear attack. But abandonment of troops, that was not something that she could stop with one Pawa and a kanima.

The large group had traveled across the Cottleg sands, starting three days after her conversation with Sovereign Deucalion. She could almost taste the Silver Sea, which would lead them up the Desert Path, through the woods and past the villages, to her home. Always back to her home.

In a day or two’s time, Parrish and the rest of the Sovereigns would convene to talk strategy. Lydia had pushed and demanded to be involved in the process, as it was her lands that they would be in. Parrish had been reluctant to agree, stuck in the Cottleg customs, but Sovereign Deucalion responded that she would be there. It had likened her to the Alpha.

They had stopped for the night, and Sovereign Deucalion had bid her farewell, so Lydia relaxed among her furs. She had called off her handmaidens hours prior, not wanting them there when she spoke to the Sovereign. Parrish was off leading a hunt with some packmates and she had sent Ser Whittemore to mingle with the other packs. Perhaps he would find another kanima there, one that he could feel comfortable with his race around. It was so rare that he shifted in front of Lydia and she feared that he was ashamed of his form.

T’ara stood outside her tent, the shadow of her frame calming. Lydia dozed in and out, waiting for Parrish to return. At some point, she slipped into a deep slumber and blinked awake when T’ara shook her. The light outside the tent was bright and she could hear the pack milling about outside.

“Is it time to leave?” Lydia asked. T’ara had a tightness to her mouth.

“Come with me, please.” She rarely added soft words to her speech, and Lydia found herself rising quickly. She wore a thin night gown, that did little to cover her, but it mattered less.

T’ara took her by the hand, her hands tiny, wiry and calloused. Lydia allowed her to lead her out of the tent and around the pack. They watched her with wide eyes, parting and not attempting to touch her. It was queer when she was used to being scented when around her people.

Lydia reached out through her bond with Parrish and felt nothing. Her curiosity hit a dead wall, thudding dully and coming back to her. T’ara noticed her rising panic, and whispered, “It’ll be okay, princess. The Sovereign is alive.”

Though she said nothing on his well-being, the words soothed her enough that she could walk calmly through the pack tents. She wondered which of the shifters knew of what had occurred. Had Parrish been struck by a scorpion during their scouting? Did another shifter challenge him to a Borrak?

They made their way to her handmaidens’ tents, a faded, pink tent. It blended to the sands when the sun was setting. Lydia had insisted that they set up towards the edge of the pack, instead of next to her tents. It was custom when a new shifter came into the fold that they would work their way into the tent city. She wouldn’t give her personal servants the luxury of their beautiful tent and a prime spot in the city.

Parrish lay on the floor, on a mat with starch cotton covering it. He had a large wound in his side, and his legs were covered in gashes. Lydia covered her mouth to stifle a shriek, her heart feeling as if it had been dipped in ice. Koro stood near him, dipping a bloodied rag into a bowl of water. Both Babika and Tyari were nowhere to be seen, probably having gave the room over to Koro so that she may work.

“The Sovereign sleeps,” Koro said. Her face was devoid of emotion, studying Lydia. She seemed to be measuring her response. “I gave him crushed Sanskurt venom, mixed in with goat milk. It will allow him to rest while he heals.”

“Thank you,” Lydia whispered. Seeing her mate lying motionless on the mat, with his face so pale and blood so dark in comparison, made her feel small. She grasped tight at her resolve, willing it to stay and strengthen. “How long will he be out?”

“He should be awake tomorrow,” Koro responded, running the rag over one of his arms. There was no wound there, but there was splatters of blood.

“Then we will rest here today.” Lydia decided before turning to T’ara. “Do you know what happened?”

T’ara nodded. “It was a fight between him and Sovereign Kali.”

Lydia felt her temper rise. That woman Alpha was going feral, or she had before she met Parrish’s claws. “Why?”

It was Koro who spoke. “I was speaking with Sovereign Deucalion, when Sovereign Ennis came by with her. Sovereign Ennis and my husband began a Borrak, and your mate came back when it looked like Sovereign Ennis would lose. She attempted to attack my husband, to underfoot him, but –”

“Parrish made sure she didn’t.” Lydia finished the sentence. She could see it clearly, her honor bound Sovereign making sure a Borrak would finish cleanly. “Is she still alive?”

“No,” T’ara replied. There was something hard in her tone, under the surface that felt like ground teeth. It mimicked the feeling in Lydia’s spirit.

“Then our pack grows.” It was the one thing to rejoice about. Koro shifted where she sat, eyeing Lydia apprehensively. “What else is there?”

“Babika and Tyari are with Sovereign Deucalion, trying to distract him.” Koro lead her words with this placating sentence. “But he has called for the war meeting, now, since we’ll be down for a day.”

_How cleanly done_ , Lydia thought savagely. No one would balk at her being there, since he had backed her desire to be there. So, it wasn’t as if she could say that someone from each pack must be there. But it would hinder her, without Parrish beside her, lending his war knowledge to hers. It would be easier for the elder Sovereign to manipulate his wants and plans into the strategy.

Koro wouldn’t meet her eyes while Lydia thought of how to respond. Oh, yes, she was sure that Babika and Tyari were with Sovereign Deucalion, but she was also just as sure they weren’t distracting him from what he wanted. “Where is he?”

“It is happening at the Feast Circle.” Koro wrung the rag in her hands, despite it having no water in it to remove.

“T’ara, you will come with me.” Lydia commanded. “I also want Ser Whittemore there, so send someone to find him.”

“He is already there, princess.” Koro said. It was good then, that she would have two sets of claws to keep her safe and guarded. Lydia looked down at her mate one more time, still pale and unmoving, but breathing.

She strode from the tent and towards the Feast Circle. It was a ceremonial, open area that the Sovereigns, or even in-between pack betas, could eat together. There were tables out in the open sky and a massive fire pit constructed in the center. Sovereign Deucalion and Sovereigns Aiden and Ethan were already present, standing around the pit. Ser Whittemore hovered on the edges, near a table. Babika and Tyari were also there, though they stepped around the pit and departed once she came in sight.

Lydia waved T’ara over to where Ser Whittemore was. She may be allowed to make allowances of having two of her trusted fighters with her, but they could not stand with the Alphas like her. Sovereign Deucalion lifted his head as she approached. “Princess Lydia,” He called in greeting. “Is Parrish well?”

“He is as well as to be expected.” She responded. Lydia watched his face, trying to determine if his goal was to kill her mate. But the Sovereign gave nothing away. “Unfortunately, he will not be able to join us.”

“A pity.” The Alpha of Alphas responded. Sovereigns Aiden and Ethan watched them both, saying nothing. She wondered what she would smell if had their senses – were the young Alphas afraid? “It’s the perfect time to discuss how to lead our men into the Martin Kingdom.”

“And I’m certain you have ideas.”

“I do. I thought we might send small squads ahead, to cut off the ports and starve out Gerard. We could also set fire to the fields, to ensure he does not compensate with grain from his own land.” _He wastes no time_ , Lydia thought. _Though his plan is a long-term one._

“It would only starve the people. There will always be food on the King’s table, even if it must be shipped through the Arrow’s Gate. As well, there is stores of food in case of plague or famine, and there would be no strain for at least a year to come in the capital.”

Her words caused the Sovereign to pause. He titled his head, a curious thing he did whenever he thought on something. Or whenever he pretended to think on something. “It will take us a fourth of a year to get up to the capital, and however long a siege may take to take it. Cutting off their food supply now would be fortuitous.”

“We will only need to lay siege if Gerard knows that we are coming.” Lydia pointed out. “And it will cause rioting in the streets, if they were to go hungry over a king’s war. It would kill the innocents of the capital.”

“Disquiet within and without the walls of the city is not a bad thing,” Sovereign Deucalion said. “It would give cause to us removing the greedy king who starved his people.”

Lydia scowled at the man, who continued to smile genially back at her. “Common people are not so stupid to think that the king is the one limiting the bread. They’ll see us as the reason, and that will give no cause to us.”

“But how could we ensure that they wouldn’t know we were coming?” Sovereign Ethan spoke up. She only knew which was which by the cut of their hair, with Sovereign Aiden preferring almost all cut off, razored down to peach fuzz. The other alpha preferred some length to his. “We are no small party.”

“We do not allow word to reach them.” Lydia responded. “We would send squads of shifters out before us, loping off among the woods. A few shifters traveling causes no concern. The town will see them and think they are making their way to the Cottleg. But they will stay in the wood and around the towns and strike down any messenger bird they see.”

“I think people will begin to find it odd if all mail ceases from the south.” Sovereign Deucalion turned his face to her. Lydia began to wish that she had dressed for the day before venturing here. The desert sun was high and unforgiving on her pale skin.

“Ravens are easy to catch, and easier still to find. Any message that is not on us will be allowed to pass through to its destination.”

“That will require a great many hands and eyes for the task.”

“Good thing we have nearly eight thousand.” Lydia cast her eyes to the horizon, and each way she looked she saw tents. There were shifters for as far as her eye could see. “Send them in groups of five and send a thousand groups. It should be enough to cover every second mile within the wood, and along the sea.”

“You mean for us to discharge five thousand shifters?” Sovereign Deucalion’s voice was soft. She had no idea what his feelings were on the issue, but neither T’ara nor Ser Whittemore shifted behind her.

“It will make our party small enough to cut up the Desert Path undetected. We could keep near the road while alerting no one. We would travel faster, arrive at the capital a month or more sooner.” She could feel her shoulders burning. “And our parties could meet up at the Martin castle, once we arrive.”

“If we were to meet battle in the field…” Sovereign Aiden trailed off.

“I’m certain that three thousand shifters will be able to face off against one battle.” Lydia said firmly. “And if we find ourselves fighting, then the squads can be called back.”

“And then, would you agree it would be time to plan for a siege?” Sovereign Deucalion was looking at her, but more looking through her. She hated when his dead eyes managed to find their way to her accurately.

“Yes.” Lydia looked away from the blind Sovereign. “I would also like to talk on the plan of attacking Silverstead.” It was the port keep where Lord Conray stayed. He had taken their family by ship when King Gerard had stormed the castle, ensuring that they would find no relief at sea.

“You wish to do that with only three thousand shifters?” Sovereign Aiden’s voice was incredulous.

“Lord Conray’s men only come home during the winter – when there is less profit to be had at sea. Right now, I would wager that almost all of his ships and soldiers are off in the Silver Sea, in the Republic for business or elsewhere in the ports. We would leave a thousand or so shifters along his borders, to strike when we have the capital.”

“I think you stretch us too thin.” Sovereign Aiden argued.

Lydia shook her head, feeling sweat dripping from her scalp before evaporating in the heat. “If we were planning on warring, I would agree with you. But we are planning on moving quiet and striking once. All we need is enough power to take the castle, and Gerard did that with less than a thousand men. Humans.” She emphasized the last word.

Sovereign Aiden winced, but stood down. “It seems as if you have a place for every shifter.” The eldest Alpha noted, his smile unmoved. “But you have no battle experience.”

“You are right, I don’t. I can only plan what I believe will work, in the quickest way possible.”

“It will certainly be the quickest.” Sovereign Deucalion mused. “And if it fails, then there is no harm to start looking at it as a battle then. Especially since you don’t plan on a fight that could cripple our numbers.”

Lydia felt her spine unlock. She regarded the older shifter coolly, wondering if he wanted her to reach this conclusion. _Why is he so willing to stand down?_ It made her uneasy. Sovereign Ethan broke the quiet. “Do you mean to actually go through with this?”

“It is Princess Lydia’s throne. We will have our boon, but she knows these lands and this Gerard better than us.” Sovereign Deucalion shrugged. He seemed to be at the height of a carefree attitude. Perhaps the Borrak and subsequent extra thousand plus shifter made him relaxed. “Now, if you excuse me, I would like to find something for food, and I think the princess may want to get inside before she all but cooks.”

“Thank you, Sovereign.” Lydia responded. He had the truth of it, all of her exposed skin hurting. Once she had spoken, Ser Whittemore and T’ara came over to her side. She attempted to walk away without showing the pain she was in. She even had no shoes on, the bottom of her feet feeling raw.

They made it back to her tents in silence. The cool floor of her tent made Lydia almost weep, and she sunk down onto her furs gratefully. “I would like something for this burn.” She directed the two shifters who stood in her presence.

“I’ll go see if Koro has any paste or cream that could be useful.” T’ara offered. Lydia nodded.

“You go as well, Ser Whittemore.” She said, waving at her kanima. He looked confused as to why she would ask this of him, so she explained. “I want someone guarding Parrish for me. He stays in a tent with Koro and the rest of Sovereign Deucalion’s wives. I want to have someone in there, looking over him, that I trust.”

“Of course, princess.” And yet, Ser Whittemore hesitated.

“T’ara will be with me, throughout the night, I swear it.” Lydia said. She could see how he wanted to follow her, and yet feared for her all the same. There was nothing to fear as she was surrounded by her pack on all sides, and she felt safe.

It was only with this promise that he left her. She wanted to recline on her furs, to let their cool strands ease the burn in her arms and shoulders but Lydia knew that she wouldn’t be getting back up for T’ara. The sun had begun to dip towards the horizon, the rays still bright but midday definitely past, when T’ara returned.

In her hands was a small jar with a light green liquid inside. Lydia stood as T’ara placed it on the table. The Pawa looked at her and grimaced. She knew her skin was a sight for sore eyes. “Koro said that it would best to apply this anywhere that could burn. It may be easier on you if you were to lay down.”

“I’ll need some help removing my dress.” Lydia admitted. It hurt to even raise her arms, so she doubted she had the dexterity needed to undress herself.

T’ara lifted it over her head after Lydia removed her own arms. There was redness beneath it as well, covering some of her stomach and her breasts. She could feel it on her back as well, the way that burnt skin would stiffen easier. “I think it’d be best to do your back first.”

The Pawa removed the furs from the mattress, replacing them with a cotton sheet. Lydia had a moment of gratefulness, knowing that she would hate to ruin the soft furs. The cotton was cool, which helped combat the pain of laying upon her burned skin, and Lydia pillowed her head in her arms. She watched as T’ara took up the jar and came back to her.

“What is it?”

“It’s a gel from a cactus. I’ve seen others use it before.” T’ara reassured her that it wasn’t going to kill her. Koro didn’t seem the type to attempt a murder in an overt way, anyway. “It won’t even hurt.”

And it didn’t. The gel was cool on her body and seemed to quench the fire that had taken residence in her skin. Lydia could feel her muscles relaxing as the skin calmed. “You did well today.” T’ara commented, working on her lower calves.

The praise did not go amiss with Lydia. It was rare for T’ara to give her kind words, but it was one of the things that she had learned to appreciate. Everything T’ara said she meant, and everyone she trusted had to earn it. They had managed to build a relationship up, from when she was adamant Lydia was a bad choice, to here on the sands.

“Let’s hope that Parrish believes so as well.” Lydia responded.

“I think he will. You managed to get the other Sovereigns to bow to what you wanted, which is a quality he’ll see merit in.”

“But what of the plans? If what I want is foolish, then worse for them to bow to me.”

“I don’t see your plans as foolish.” T’ara hesitated. She had finished applying the gel to Lydia’s lower body and began to work on her back.

“But?” Lydia urged her to continue.

The gel made T’ara’s hands softer. “But I think there is more you could do.”

“Such as?”

“You’ve said what you want to happen, but you left up who goes where. Sovereign Deucalion could ask for half of our pack to stay in Silverstead, and then it would be you and Parrish, and the twin Sovereigns and Sovereign Deucalion.”

“Are you proposing that I leave one of the Alphas in Silverstead?” Lydia tried to push herself up to look at T’ara. The Pawa kindly, but firmly, pushed her shoulders back down.

“Yes, it would even the odds some. And who better to lead an attack than a Sovereign themselves?”

“Who better?” Lydia murmured. T’ara helped her flip over, and her back only protested some.

The Pawa started at her feet again. The motions were relaxing, and Lydia found herself ready to doze again. “Tomorrow, these should be healed. All of our Sovereign’s healing is focused on himself now.”

“As it should be.” Lydia responded. She hoped that he would wake early tomorrow, or even late tonight, so that they would have time to speak. T’ara had worked her way up to Lydia’s thighs. She jolted a bit when she felt a stirring between her legs, feeling her body tense up.

T’ara paused for a minute, possibly to allow Lydia to process her mortification. The tent was silent except for her quickened breaths. She had noticed the Pawa, in that way with her pretty eyes and her strong, thin frame, but Lydia was sworn to her Sovereign.

And yet… he had other wives and husbands. They were kept out of her sight, but she knew that the Borraks didn’t just glean new betas. It was different than a mate. Parrish could still lie with them, could still rear children with them, but if he lived until their son took adulthood, their son would be the only legitimate one to claim the Alpha power.

_Is it really so different?_ Her traitorous mind whispered. T’ara still hadn’t moved, her body going still in a way that only shifters could. But who was to say that T’ara would be receptive to her? And, she was a Pawa to the Sovereign, not someone that Lydia had any claim to.

She shut her eyes, drew a deep breath, and set out to ignore what her body’s responses were. “Please, continue.” Lydia was proud to say her voice didn’t shake.

The day passed and T’ara reapplied the ointment before Lydia went to bed. When it was time for Lydia to roll over, she took the jar from the Pawa and told her that she could do it herself. Perhaps it was the sunburn playing tricks on her, but it seemed like disappointment hidden in the almond eyes.

When morning came, Parrish still rested in her handmaidens’ tent. Koro came by early to give her another jar of the healing jelly, and Tyari brought her some food. Lydia thought of going out to meet her Sovereign, but the idea of the sun scared her. T’ara stood just inside her tent and watched Lydia as she went about her day.

Tyari brought her lunch and told her that Sovereign Deucalion was hoping to send off a few groups of scouts within the week up around the Desert Path. Lydia asked her to procure a list of the groups, names and packs, and to have it sent to her before anyone was let out.

T’ara smiled at that, all approving, and Lydia hated how something in her stomach swooped at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay!! my partner got a job opportunity halfway across the country that we weren't expecting and i spent the last several days helping them pack
> 
> next chapter will still come out 4/10 as an apology for my lateness


	16. Stiles

Stiles usually loved the sea. Knowing there was a decaying corpse of an eleven-year-old on board, and several dead teenagers in the woods, soured his mood however. It also soured his mood that Derrik had shut him out. Though, soured was the wrong word… it was more pure sadness.

He wanted to help his prince, wanted to reach out and curl around Derrik. He wanted to tell him he knew what he was feeling, and it was awful, and the why would anyone let a child defend nobles?

He had stood outside Derrik’s tent, each night after the prince had closed himself up in a carriage for their hellbent journey to the nearest town. They were riding for a safer travel, and for Prince Conan to find a healing home. He hadn’t woken up since Joren…since the fight.

And anyway, it wasn’t as if Derrik had ever responded. After the third night, Erica had pulled him aside.

“Give him time,” she said.

“I want to help.” Stiles felt hopeless. He had gotten through a death before, a close death, but still did not know how to respond to it. Would Derrik soldier on? What did he need?

She had clapped in on the shoulder. “Then give him some time. It’s how he deals with these things.”

Stiles had listened. He delved himself into interacting with Erica and Lord Isaac, ate with the family and watched over Prince Conan. He rode with the pack, at the front of the procession, and had claimed his own cabin at the ship. Stiles wanted to say that he didn’t seek out his prince at every meal, at every corner, but that would be a falsehood.

Sometimes, large falcons would swoop around their ship, delivering letters to the Queen. How the majestic birds knew where to find her, Stiles would not know. He began to read the books that Lord Isaac had brought him, touching the pages that held pictures of flowers and other foliage.

He wondered what Derrik would think of them.

They stopped at ports every day or two and Stiles would get off and wander the market stalls. There were moments where he’d get swept up in the merchants shouting their wares, the children running around, the magic of the quickly increasing snow and he’d find himself grinning. Then, a thin boy—maybe he looked like Joren, maybe he looked like the shifter—and his mood would escape him.

It was a week on the ship, and Stiles was all but commandeering Prince Conan’s whole wardrobe, when he was offered a private lunch with Queen Talia. She had been distant since her human son was crushed, but it was to be expected.

There was a set of sandwiches and tea in tall mugs when Stiles came down to her chambers. The room wasn’t much bigger than his, with a tiny bed and a desk shoved into the corner. There was barely enough space for the tiny table that they had placed inside.

“I was thinking this would be more enjoyable than out with the sea whipping at your face.” Queen Talia smiled at him, her expression somewhat rueful.

“It’s fine.” Stiles dismissed it. He sat down and looked at the spread. There was no way that they were going to eat all the sandwiches, and what would happen to them then?

She nodded before serving him some tea. He shuddered to think how a servant might fit in here. “I wanted to let you know that word came on Conan. They’ve stopped giving him the sleeping draught and he is seeming to make his way to recovery.”

“That’s good.” Stiles sipped at the tea. He was uncertain on how he should talk to her, as most dinners, she sat regal and kindly around the wolves but rarely spoke. “Will he be joining us in Moonpearl, then?”

“Oh, moonlight, no. He’ll head straight up to the Hale castle. Laura will have a fit if she can’t make sure he’s okay.”

“That’s awfully nice of her.” They lapsed into silence again. The sandwiches tasted like the sea to Stiles, with fish meat wrapped in seaweed between the barley loaves. It must be what the crew usually ate as he found it to be an acquired taste.

Queen Talia sighed after he ate a few bites. He may know her loosely, but he knew that sigh. It was the same one his king father would heave when he was worried about something. Stiles felt his shoulders tense. “I know you may feel unsafe, but I promise that what happened was an unsightly accident. Those shifters cannot hurt you again, and no others would dare while you ride with me.”

His mind went blank on how completely wrong she had gotten his worries. “They killed Joren.”

“Yes, and it is terrible. It is,” she reassured him, when he looked up to measure her sincerity. “It is awful for one so young to die.”

“Those _shifters_ were young.”

A grimace passed over Queen Talia’s face. “And they chose to attempt to attack people on the road. It was a natural consequence of their actions.”

“But why would they?” Stiles felt he might know, had allowed the question to swirl around in his mind for the last several days. “What would make some young boys want to try their hand at robbery?”

“Sometimes people do things for reasons we cannot understand.” Queen Talia intoned.

And that was the gist of it, that no matter how she cut down on her extravagance, how she wore less fancy clothes or ate plainly, she and he would never be worried about food. They would never worry about money or where their next meal may come from or losing a home or drought or the thousand tiny miseries a poorer man might face. Stiles only had the idea of it from Scott, back before the Queen Melissa had been wed to King Thomas.

“I think you could,” Stiles responded quietly. “If you would put yourself in their position.”

The Queen made a noncommittal noise, enough to encourage Stiles to continue but not enough that he felt she already agreed. “Think about it—you’re being sent to the Cottleg desert, tossed from your pack and told to survive alone. And for what?”

“I can’t change what my people do.”

“Really?” The bite in his words was something that most in high courts did not get to experience. His father notwithstanding. “You’re a queen, but you can’t change what your people do?”

She looked down at her tea for a few minutes. “If your king father was to place a ban on whorehouses, do you think that would actually lessen the amount of people selling their bodies? Or those buying?” Stiles opened his mouth, unsure of his response, but she continued on. “Or take stealing for example. Just because it is outlawed doesn’t prevent those who are going to steal from doing so. Or those who are going to rape, or those who would murder.”

“But they at least get punished.” Stiles argued back. There was rows of cells down below the castle that held the rapers and thieves of the Stilinski kingdom.

“And you think that all thieves deserve punishment?” Queen Talia’s lip twisted into a rueful grimace. “That means you would agree with me on the fate of those shifters.”

The fire inside of him, quick to stir and quick to settle, abated. “There are sometimes…circumstances that may allow someone to make a poor judgement. But an entire kingdom—” Stiles cut himself off, unsure of how to continue.

Queen Talia gazed upon him, not unkindly. “The culture is different where we are going, Prince Stiles. Our very religions are different. When my parents ruled the lands, and their parents before him, it was thought that shifters that didn’t feel the call of the moon would bring misfortune. The poor believed it more strongly than others, to the point that any shifter that wasn’t a wolf was an ill omen, and the effects still ripple in the kingdom. I do all I can, from encouraging my ladies about their children and showing support of Malia.”

They sat in silence for a moment, as the Queen seemed to struggle with something internally. “I am doing my best to undo that stain on the Hale kingdom. But—and this is something you must learn if you wish to rule effectively, the hammer is not always the most efficient weapon. A tiny screw may do the job in a more elegant manner, even if the results take longer to appear.”

“The result being that less _children_ are shipped off to their death in the Cottleg.” Stiles pushed his tea away from himself.

“Not all that go there die.”

“And how would you know?” He challenged.

“Would you be able to keep something private, Stiles? Between us?” She searched his face, and probably his scent and heart as well, while Stiles kept himself still. He gave a sharp nod as the alertness faded from her features. “I am not the firstborn of my parents.”

The Queen allowed that information to sink in until it startled Stiles enough to open his mouth. Surely his king father knew, and King Gerard, and all other nobles born before a certain time, but he had never heard of this before. When a small sound escaped from his throat, only then did she hold up her hand. “When I was young, I had a brother. An elder brother. I was barely eight when my parents discovered him to be a shifter unlike a wolf.”

“What was he?”

“I never truly found out. I know he is alive and well in the Cottleg desert, however, as Lord Deaton keeps me well updated. But knowing more than his status of life feels cruel, and painful, invasive.” Her words trailed off. “But there is a chance of survival in the desert.”

“Is that where Lord Deaton is now?” Stiles recalled their earlier—and only—conversation. Queen Talia nodded, still gazing at the wood somewhere adjacent to Stiles’ head. Her thumb stroked her woolen gown slowly. “Does he only go there to check up on your brother? Is that why you have him in your employ?” He seemed to have gotten one answer on the elusive Lord and three more took its place.

“I think it’s time we took leave of each other, Prince Stiles.” Her voice brokered no argument, her eyes still lost in the past.

Stiles cut off his questions, his jaw feeling mechanical with its closing. Queen Talia did not spare him a glance as he bowed and took his leave. It was getting cold enough that he had taken to wearing his thickest furs when he was abreast the ship. Prince Conan was true to his offer—that Stiles would need his furs—but the idea of wearing them made the southern prince distinctly uncomfortable.

He found Erica, wearing a woolen dress and nothing else, at the hull. The sea crashed around them, as grey as the sky above them. In her grasp was several sheaths of parchment.

“Good morrow,” Stiles called out to her. She undoubtedly knew he was present but still turned at the sound of his voice.

A smile, big and bold as the first time he saw her, broke across her face. “Good morrow, Stiles. How was your luncheon?”

“Insightful.” He stepped up next to her, tucking his cold-bitten cheeks further into his furs. “Is it good news?” Stiles ducked his head toward the paper.

Erica looked down at the papers as if she had forgotten they were there. She raised them up, “Yes, good news.” It had the sigil of the healing house Prince Conan was housed at. “Conan woke up.”

“That is good news.”

“The healers are hopeful that they can do more with him able to tell them what’s wrong. And he also was able to get someone to jot down a letter to us.” Erica pulled the letter close to her chest. “Mostly dribble about how we need to send him information on the winter fashion, and that he expects a feast and dance for when he gets home.”

“Jokes,” Stiles responded. “That’s a good sign. I would have thought that the Queen would have spoke about this while we ate.”

“A bird just brought it. I was going to take it to her, hopefully lift everyone’s spirits a little.” Her free hand reached over to him, touching his numb fingers and rubbing some warmth in them. It felt as she was burning him.

“Do you think…?” Stiles trailed off. He knew that Derrik was in misery over the whole proceedings—Prince Conan and Joren—and that little changed with the human prince awake.

Erica’s smile dimmed. “We can hope.” She tried to encourage him weakly. “Besides, if he keeps this up for much longer, I’ll break down his door. Joren would never have let him waste away like this.”

Stiles thought of the young boy, how he could go quickly from a quivering mess to a scowling, pushy servant. He couldn’t say which approach he would use on Derrik, or which would work. “I’m trying to give him time.”

“We all see that,” Erica hastened to reassure him.

“But don’t you think this is a poor way to respond to his grief? If I’m to be with him, shouldn’t I be with him, even when it’s hard?” The culture of the Hale kingdom had him questioning a lot of things.

“That’s never been Derrik’s way.”

Stiles pressed his lips tightly together, willing himself to leave the conversation there. It created a horridly itchy sensation under his skin. “Are you sure that is how he is?” Steam puffed up around his face, telling him that he had indeed questioned someone much closer to Derrik than him about mannerisms he would have no way of knowing about.

“What do you mean?” She frowned at him but didn’t seem angry. Yet. That was a good sign, as he thought his question would earn at least a shove.

“I mean that anything else he brings to you, doesn’t he? Pack is supposed to be close—right? Why wouldn’t he share this with you?”

Erica fiddled with the parchment in her hand, smoothing out the wrinkles her hands had caused. She sighed before speaking. “Derrik doesn’t bring a lot to us. Not anymore. We didn’t know until Queen Melissa’s birth festival that he was even interacting with you. You talked more about him to me than he did.

“Before Paige, he told us everything. That’s not exactly true.” Erica’s face took on a sour expression. “Before Princess Kate, he was more open. I think that she took a lot of the softer parts of him and made him feel as if he had to hide it. When his mother got the letter about a second proposed betrothal, he didn’t even say he didn’t want it then.”

“Then why didn’t it happen?” King Thomas had made it clear that it was an issue on the Hale side for the betrothal.

She snorted. “He may act like it didn’t bother him, but that wouldn’t convince his mother. She sent back an immediate and resounding no. And now we’re here.”

“And now we’re here.” Stiles echoed.

“He may want to share, to mourn with the pack—with you. But something, or someone, has made him feel like he can’t. So Derrik won’t, at least not around anyone, and then he never will. And that sounds worse to me than a few weeks or months without seeing his face.”

Derrik acting like Stiles was going to hurt his sketches, him acting surprised that Stiles wanted to dance with him, acting shocked that he wanted to spend time with him. They all swirled around in his mind. He made a humming sound low in his throat.

“I have to give this to Queen Talia.” Erica folded the letter up. “Will you be alright?”

“Of course.” Stiles responded automatically. A defense, innate and quick. He wondered how twisted up and aggressive Derrik’s innate defenses had become. He listened to the creak of the door to the cabins opening over the howl of the wind.

Though the cold sunk to his bone, hurting him, he stood still. A white noise layered over his thoughts, over Derrik and the Cottleg desert and how power may be in the name but that doesn’t mean it the person holds it. The queen couldn’t enforce shifters to raise their children, and Derrik, more power physically and nobly, still hurt under the Argent princess.

The sky was as dark as the tents of the Hale encampment by the time he turned to go back to his room. Maybe he would ask one of the cabin boys to bring him some rags soaked in hot water, as a hot bath was impossible. His bones felt as rusted as the metal of the ship, creaking as he walked down the stairs.

Derrik’s door was on the left, a few rooms before his. He stared at it as he passed slowly. The wood pattern was familiar to him now. There was a desire, that died as quick as it had started, to knock and see if Derrik would answer. Stiles moved past the room and into his.

Once he was in his cabin, he fell onto his bunk and rolled over to his back. He knew he should set about removing his clothes, as they were the fine ones that would befit lunch with the Queen but couldn’t rouse himself to do so. Stiles felt a heavy weight in his chest. Each breathe out felt like a deep sigh and each sigh gave no relief. The amount of time that passed before a knock came at his door was uncertain.

Instead of rising to answer, Stiles called out for the guest to come in. His voice croaked with the use. He struggled into a sitting position as the door swung open. Standing on the other side was not Derrik, as he had foolish hope for, but Princess Cora. She hesitated just outside the door to his room.

“Are you faring well?” The words seemed rehearsed and didn’t suit her. Stiles blinked instead of responding, watching her frown deepen.

It felt as if his brain was fighting against a heavy mist to understand her question. “No,” Stiles replied. “I’m not.”

If he were more alert, if he had less thoughts or were less tired, he may have felt embarrassed at the stark honesty. He lay back down on his bed, hoping that the unconventional way that he and Princess Cora interacted would be in his favor today. Stiles heard the door shut.

Then Princess Cora was looming over him, looking down on him. “Okay.” She settled herself onto the bed, laying on top of him in a similar fashion he had seen her do with Prince Conan.

The weight somehow eased the one inside him, and Stiles ran his hands through her hair while she tucked her face into his neck. It was odd. It was comforting. “It would be easier if we were still on land.” Princess Cora said after a moment.

“What do you mean?”

“Then Derrik could just shift, and we would spend some time with him in the woods. Everything is easier to deal with as a wolf. A ship isn’t a place to run and roam and howl.”

“Is that how he dealt with Lady Paige?” Stiles didn’t think Joren’s death was as striking, but the question bore into his mind.

He felt Princess Cora shrug. “Sometimes. Malia, when she was around, and I would stay with him then. I just don’t think he wants to talk about what happened. And when he’s a wolf, he doesn’t have to. He can be close to us and we can’t ask him any questions.”

Stiles thought it over. “I wouldn’t ask him any questions.”

“I didn’t say you would.” She said it in a way that made it clear she knew he would. “But our mother can sometimes be incessant in her need to know. She would probe and hover over him, given the chance.”

“Then why doesn’t she? It’s not as if he could stop her.”

“But that wouldn’t help him, would it?” Princess Cora responded. “Derrik works through things at his own pace. I’m just happy he can’t put what happened to Conan on himself.”

“Why would he?” The very idea was startling to Stiles. Enough to still his hand, which made Princess Cora huff and whine. He kept up the gentle hair tugging.

She resettled into his neck and breathed out a laugh. “Derrik does his best to make everything his fault. I think he thinks he’s supposed to feel bad over anything that goes wrong.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond to what Princess Cora said, and so he didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next on 4/14 
> 
> i also have only two more chapters to write!!
> 
> and i'm working on a new piece as well, which will be coming in probably about ~3 months from now!!


	17. Derrik

The sea was unruly. It did not change the emotions inside of him, the unsurety of his steps and how he felt as if his mind had been dislodged from his body. The four-day journey to whatever port city they had went to passed in a blur to him. No one had bothered him while they had traveled, though Stiles’ heartbeat could have been heard from outside his tent.

Derrik longed to go and meet him. He would stay in his bed, staring at the cloth barrier, in a pair of sleep clothes that he hadn’t changed, because he couldn’t bear to look at his trunk. Joren would handle those affairs for him, and it was then that he felt the loss the most.

Pack bonds are a fickle thing with wolves, Derrik knew. You didn’t need one with the Alpha to have one with a beta, though to have one with all betas, you did. Derrik could see how it hadn’t hurt the others like him—they were more concerned with Conan. And that was the awful part, that he hadn’t crept out from his hiding hole to see his brother. But the pack bond was still there, somewhat strained but pulsing with life.

They had left his brother in the port city, with a small healing house. He’d join them when the healers had finished their magic and then, then Derrik would apologize. Conan would laugh it off, kiss his cheek, all forgotten.

Derrik didn’t know how to apologize to Joren. What words could he say to a corpse? _I’m sorry that I wasn’t fast enough? I guess humans won that round?_ His eyes welled up at his poor attempt at humor. The room he was in made his wolf feel anxious, too small and under the waves.

But outside of his room was his family, waiting to toss looks his way and ask him in too many words about how he was feeling. He thought on shifting, running through the wood and escaping from thoughts altogether. Stiles may take that as a slight. That Derrik was willing to interact with the wolves and not him.

The decision was taken out of his hands when they arrived at a port town and entered onto a boat. There, he knew, that shifting would do little to ease the stress inside of him. So, he stayed inside his room and let the waves rock his body.

It took until the they had docked at the first port for supplies for him to wake from his stupor. Derrik didn’t leave his room then, however. He instead took to thinking on how Stiles was most likely upset at him for abandoning him directly after Joren. Derrik knew he wasn’t Princess Kate. That didn’t dissuade his mind from thinking Stiles would respond the same.

He fought against that sentiment, knowing it to be false. Stiles never laughed at him, or his drawings, never hurt him when touching him. His eyes were never cold, his voice never cruel. Yet Derrik dawdled over it for such a length of time that he felt that someone as kind as Stiles might even begin to feel the stirrings of frustration.

Derrik also felt frustration, mainly at himself. He was angry that he allowed Princess Kate to prevent him from seeking help in his pack. Yet it warred with an almost innate fear that they would see him weaker for his grief and cut him down accordingly.

He spent all of his time thinking. And then, Derrik spent time drawing.

He drew a design for the casket covering that Joren would be placed in. It was to be made out of the clay from his family home and hold traditional markings of knights’ caskets. Derrik included drawings of lavender and the head of a goat, to mark his past at home and the gift he had given the boy. He would send it away when the next falcon came.

Then, Derrik began to work on Stiles’ courting gift. He promised himself he wouldn’t use it as an apology for time spent apart. He would apologize, he would give the gift, but he wouldn’t associate them. He made a headdress for Stiles, with sunflowers and gazanias and little purple and deep red flowers that were just for decoration.

They would curl around his head, fashioned much like a crown, big enough that they would look real. Derrik hoped it would make Stiles think of his favorite time, and the garden of his home, while they stayed in the winter fortress of Moonpearl.

He could not yet make it, as he had no way to procure needle or cloth on this boat. Once Derrik had completed the design, there was nothing left for him inside his room. The ache in his chest over Joren sat there, deep but not encompassing enough to stop him from seeking Stiles anymore.

The hallway was smaller and darker than he remembered when Derrik first stepped out. He followed the sound of waves to the staircase. The sky was as colorless as the sea, but his eyes still strained against the light. Away from him, leaning onto a bannister, was Stiles. He looked to the horizon with a terse-set mouth and tired eyes. Derrik noted how he wore one of Conan’s coats and a pair of his gloves—a pair that Derrik himself had fashioned.

His prince looked as lovely as always to him and Derrik moved forward without thought. He came to stand behind Stiles, struck with nothing to say. The choice was taken out of his hands when the man startled slightly and turned his eye toward the wolf.

“Prince Derrik.” The words were soft and confused. Stiles’ eyes tracked the whole of his face, and a pained scent floated on the sea mist.

Derrik let him look his fill, before stepping up to the bannister with him. “Stiles.” It left his body like a prayer. He could feel the heat that the prince was giving off next to him, longed to lean on his shoulder and dip his face into the windswept hair. He warred with his emotions—not knowing if he was allowed that luxury.

Stiles started to respond several times, each time cutting off his words before they could leave his mouth. Derrik gave him patience. Finally, the younger man cast his eyes away from the wolf and spoke. “They say we will arrive at Moonpearl in two days’ time.”

“That seems awfully quick.” Time had moved in lurches and crawls in his cabin.

“Doesn’t feel that way to me,” Stiles rebutted. “You’ll have to show me everything when we get there.” His voice lightened in tone, as if he was attempting to jest.

“Of course I will.” Derrik allowed the full of his sincerity to leak into his words. Stiles’ face opened vulnerably at his response; his scent turned sweet with aching. “I wanted to apologize, for leaving you alone in this…trying time.”

“You needed time alone.” Stiles said, quick and hard. Dismissive of the hurt that Derrik might have placed on him. It rankled somewhere deep in the wolf’s chest.

“I did not have to shut you out like that.” He argued in return. “It wasn’t fair.”

“Your family told me to expect it.” The prince spoke with a soft inflection, as if he was trying to let Derrik know that no harm was done. The sad scent around him told a different story.

“You wouldn’t cut me out like that.”

It seemed to stop the placating that Stiles was doing. “I wouldn’t.” He allowed. “I would want to have you help me.”

“I wanted that, too.” Derrik admitted. It would have been a kindness to have Stiles there with him, lying next to him and offering him touch and scent. “I just didn’t know—didn’t feel. I just.” His words seemed to die in his throat. How could he explain to Stiles that he didn’t deserve to take up his time like that? How could Derrik explain that there was fear in him to be viewed as weak?

He let out an explosive breath. Derrik may not be able to fully explain it, but he could tell Stiles where it came from. “When I was fifteen, I was engaged to be mated to Princess Katherine.”

Stiles nodded. This part of the story was common news. “She was beautiful, and older. Not old enough that it would raise eyes at our mating, but old enough that I felt intimidated. She had a way with the court, a way of commanding that I never did. She made me feel as if I could learn so much from her. I wanted to.”

Derrik could see it in his mind’s eye. Almost five years ago then, the way she would cling to his arm and people would watch them go by. The way she demanded attention when she swept into the room. How she always knew what to say. Neither of them was first in line for a throne, but he was a prince, born and raised. And yet she was so much more accomplished at everything his mother attempted to instill in him.

“I tried to do as she did. Stand taller and walk with purpose. I tried to match her.” Derrik had done his level best to be a good and equal mate to Princess Kate. “And I don’t think she liked that very much, if her response was anything to go on. She started giving me lessons—mean, spiteful lessons. She laughed at the way that I kept a notebook for drawing.”

Stiles attempted to interrupt then, watching him with fiery eyes. Derrik held up a hand. “She laughed when I cried over knights passing or when my father fell sick for a time. Princess Kate _instructed_ me that those soft emotions were weak, and why I had never held presence like her. And I believed her. She was cutting me down, making me to feel small, even while telling me she was making me stronger. I think a part of me still believes her.

“And so, when I met Lady Paige, who drew eyes to her and whose servants adored her, I fell for her. She was everything and nothing like Princess Kate—able to speak her mind, yet kind. Able to give orders without being cruel. She was to make a wonderful lady when her parents were to give her rule of her house. I had no doubt. When she passed, it was as if she was blocking out everything Princess Kate had ever taught me. When she was no longer there, it all came flooding back.”

Derrik felt the wood creak under his hands, the salt of the sea making it brittle. “Perhaps if I had spoke to Lady Paige on the issue, it would have ceased to be. Perhaps, even with her, the echoes of Princess Kate’s instructions still lingered in me—‘to show a weak hand, to expect help, is the ultimate sign of poor-blood royalty’. It’s not as if I didn’t want to talk about it with her, I just felt that I couldn’t.”

The sea howled around them, the wind boxing in their ears. The two princes stood in silence for a moment. Stiles slid his hand over to Derrik’s, the touch comforting even through the glove. “Thank you for sharing it with me.” He started. “I don’t think it’s weak at all to need help from time to time. You would never think that of anyone here to be weak when seeking comfort.”

It was truth, as Derrik had seen each of his packmates in low spirits and only felt the stirrings of need to help. It never disgusted him the way his emotions seemed to the Argent princess. “Please don’t think that I would ever respond like her. I just want to help you.” Stiles’ hand tightened briefly.

“Okay.” Derrik was uncertain of what else he could say. The conversation gave the same sensation in him as popping a blister and forcing the pus from the wound. He turned his head to Stiles’ hair, dropping his nose into the soft locks. It was clear that Stiles hadn’t been able to find proper bathing arrangements on the ship, but it was no worse than Cora on the road up. His lips moved in their own accord, pressing a gentle kiss to the prince’s scalp. He returned the gesture by stroking Derrik’s bare fingers.

Derrik pulled away to smile and say, “You know, I made those gloves.”

“Really?” Stiles lifted the hand up closer to his face, examining the article with newfound interest. “So, I have finally seen something in the flesh from your books.”

“You’re wearing something from one of my books.” Derrik corrected him, basking in the happy glow of his intended’s scent.

\--

Derrik knew he was to join the family dinner that night. If Stiles went, then the whole of the pack would be able to tell that he had finally emerged from his cabin. And then made the decision not to seek any of them out. Derrik winced at the imagined fallout.

The pack was set up in a large eating hall down below decks. It was most likely so that Stiles wouldn’t have to try and keep footing while eating on the ship deck. He snuck in with the cabin boys who were bringing the food, his appearance of a Hale enough for them not to stop him. Even if they had only seen him during boarding.

Only Cora and Erica didn’t control their response to smelling him coming, both staring at him as he made his way to the table. There was a seat next to Stiles, across from Boyd, that was empty, and he knew it was meant for him. Derrik wondered if they saved him a seat each night, or if Stiles had prewarned everyone that tonight he would be joining them.

His mother acted as if nothing was amiss, instead talking about an update on Conan. “They say that he is making good progress, even without regaining the feeling in his legs. He’s been using his arms, and they will soon have a chair fashioned for him to still get around in.”

“Do they know if he’ll ever get his legs back?” Cora asked, poking at what appeared to be cured seaweed on her plate.

Queen Talia’s mouth pulled down slightly. “They aren’t sure.” She hedged. “It is unlikely, but Conan has never been one to care about odds.”

Stiles shifted next to Derrik. He put some fish on the wolf’s plate before speaking up, the mindless gesture lighting something up inside Derrik. “Would he heal if you were to turn him?”

Derrik dared a glance at his mother and then looked away as quick as he could. The question seemed to surprise her, and unease wafted through the room. “The bite doesn’t work like that. It can’t heal something that has already happened—such as a scar or being mute. If I had thought that for a moment that it was more than a broken leg, I may have tried to turn him, but Conan, well,” Queen Talia seemed to pull in on herself.

“He didn’t want the bite.” Derrik explained to Stiles, answering the rest of the question. “There was a lot of issues with him—when the court found out he was human. It sort of changed the way that he was treated, and Conan felt as if it became a large part of him.” The answer was as gentle as Derrik could make it, much less vulgar than his eldest brother would say. The court was fickle on everyone around his mother, as much as they could be without losing the Alpha’s total favor.

As Alpha, Derrik knew his mother would prefer a more drag-down-knock-out method to dealing with the insipid gossipers that flocked around her. But she was always a Queen and wanted the other five Alphas of the Hale lands to still bow to her, so allies she needed. Laura would go on rambling tangents about it with him. She discussed the finer points how she might strike several down with a larger army to keep the other Alphas in line.

“Oh, I see.” Stiles looked back down to his food, brow furrowed. It was the least verbose response Derrik had ever seen from the young man.

The conversation was tabled to talk about Moonpearl and plans surrounding the great house. Isaac and Erica were founts of ideas on what they should do when they got there, even if they were only staying for three days. The Hale castle loomed in the future, like an old friend behind the hill, waiting for them to return for the Full Moon Festival. Queen Talia would not have another one without being home for it.

Isaac suggested they go ice fishing when at Moonpearl, so that they may have some variation in diet on the road back to the Hale castle.

“Variation?” Malia asked, gesturing to the fish that they had been eating for over a week at sea. “I relish the idea of getting a hare in between my teeth. At this point, I’ll be happy when we get more oatmeal.” Almost every wolf at the table agreed with her, heartily so, and Isaac beat back his idea with red cheeks.

\--

Derrik was caught by Erica as the dinner disbanded. Boyd and Malia had wandered off first, the waves lulling them to slumber, with Cora following closely behind. It seemed as if Stiles was wanting to speak with him, but Erica looped her arm around his before they got out the door. The flash of disappointment in Stiles’ scent did not go unnoticed.

“You can have him later,” Erica promised. “But I also want to catch up.”

And Stiles smiled easy with that, holding his hands in mock surrender. She led him back up to the top of the ship. The night sky made the water look inky and dangerous, so Derrik guided them far from the railing of the ship. The walk was blessedly silent for the first few moments.

“How are you feeling?” Erica’s voice was quiet, but his wolf ears didn’t need much to catch words.

He bit his tongue. His first response—first response since Princess Katherine, really—was to snarl and then huff that he was handling it. “I feel better knowing that Conan will most likely be home when we get there.”

“He’s going to be different.” Erica warned.

“I know.” A sharp sense of guilt tore through him. He wondered how his brother was responding to learning that he may spend his life in a chair, how Conan would act with them now.

“It’s not your fault.”

His response came slower this time. “I know.”

“Okay.” Erica replied. “I just want you to know. No one thinks you are to blame, so knowing how you like to twist things up in your head, thought I should just tell you.”

Derrik had twisted the scenario in his mind. That maybe if he had heard the heartbeats across the way, had identified them as a threat—as a shifter—then Joren would still be here and Conan would be complaining about sharing his cloaks with Stiles. But then the onus of blame would also fall on Erica and Boyd, the two wolves that ran alongside him. Derrik didn’t see them as having fault.

“Stiles really wanted to see you these last few weeks.” It was a subtle change in subject, one that wasn’t even much of a shift, but Derrik took it gratefully.

“I wanted to see him, too.” The honesty felt good.

Erica tilted her head, looking at him for a moment. “Then why didn’t you?”

“It’s hard to explain.” Derrik offered with a long sigh. “I’m working on it.”

“Okay.” And that was that.

They turned to walk back toward the entrance to the lower quarters, and Derrik felt lighter. The conversation didn’t leave him feeling quite as sick as past ones would suggest.

Erica left him at Stiles’ door, as if he would need a guide to find it. There was a slight pervasiveness of his scent along the stretch of wall. Not to mention how his rabbit-heart danced behind the door. Derrik had barely knocked before it was tossed open to his intended. His hair was a mess and his shoes were off as he gestured Derrik inside.

Passing through the threshold, Derrik lifted his head up to scent the room. “Cora’s been in here?” He asked, confused.

“Yeah,” Stiles laughed, tucking his hands behind his back in a nervous twitch. “I would have thought you’d been able to smell it on me before you could smell it here. She basically used me as a cot for a few hours a couple days ago.”

There was a flash of panic in Derrik, wondering how to explain that Stiles smelled almost overwhelmingly of himself due to not bathing. He thought of not responding at all. Then, ever observant, Stiles titled his head, “What?”

“A person’s scent…” Derrik trailed off, unsure on how to proceed. He had managed to make it into his future mate’s private quarters, a good several months at least in advance, and was about to be promptly kicked out for being rude. “Wolves usually bathe every few days to prevent scent build-up.”

That was even more callous than he had been intending.

A spike of embarrassment climbed in Stiles’ scent, and then stayed there, just filling the room. “Oh, I, uh, probably smell pretty rank right now.” He wouldn’t look at Derrik. “If you would give me a moment, I could put some clothes on to go outs—”

“It’s just hard to smell anything besides you.” In an attempt to clarify, Derrik thought he managed to make the scent twice as potent. “I like the way you smell.” He admitted.

“You do?” Stiles stopped rubbing his neck and pulling his chest toward his back.

“Of course, otherwise I wouldn’t even think about mating you.” When Stiles turned pink, and a new emotion filtered through, Derrik realized that was the first time that either of them had actually said it aloud.

They had spoken of it in the Stilinski wood, of how Stiles would accept no matter what Derrik gave him. The honest thump of the young prince’s heart. Derrik knew that he could hand the man a spoon or spool of thread and be accepted then. His mouth felt dry at the realization that he had brought it up a second time. “I’ll spend the rest of my life with you, when we’ve—mated.” His tongue tripped over the word. “It’s important that our scents agree with each other.”

Stiles nodded before casting his eyes up and away from Derrik. “Can I smell you?” His mind went blank for a moment and Stiles hastened to explain. “I just don’t have a nose like any of you, so I haven’t really…there hasn’t been a chance to know what you smell like. Not that I’m thinking that you won’t smell good, it’s not that.”

“Sure,” Derrik responded, voice grating out like sandpaper. He tucked his hands behind his back, curling his fingers around his forearms. He would do his best to keep propriety as close of a cousin in this room as he could. The wolf titled his head to the side some, allowing Stiles a crook of his neck.

The young prince followed the movement with his eyes, and Derrik was in confined enough quarters to hear the way his breath caught. He approached Derrik as if he was a skittish animal. In the moment, Derrik felt as if he was.

There was nothing about them touching except the soft of Stiles’ lips and the tip of his cold nose to Derrik’s neck, but the wolf felt as if he had been struck with lightning. His claws popped out behind his back and his teeth itched to drop down. The room was silent except the shaky pulls of breath from Stiles.

After a moment, or maybe an hour, the man pulled back. “I like the way you smell.” He said, looking anywhere besides Derrik.

Derrik struggled for a moment to get his claws to recede, watching the way the red spread from Stiles’ face to his neck. “That’s good.” He managed to grunt out.

Stiles bit hard into his lip for a moment, before coughing and straightening his back out. “So, what did Erica want?”

“She just wanted to act mother hen, ask me the history of my life and wellbeing.” He shrugged. “She does it every time I withdraw.”

“Does she now?” Stiles asked drolly.

“Yes,” Derrik paused. “Did she say anything to you about it?”

“Erica most certainly did not tell me anything about her inquisition into you. In fact, she told me the opposite. I’ve been instructed not to bombard you with questions by her.”

The hypocrisy of the gesture made Derrik bark out a laugh. “I have no idea why she would tell you that.”

“Maybe she wanted to be the first to know about how you were feeling.” Stiles hazarded a guess.

“That sounds like her.” And in truth, it did. She was always the first he wrote to, the first he went to, whenever he needed comfort. His mother talked about how he was swaddled and cribbed next to the two twins. She would say that Isaac and Erica had such a propensity for the pack bonds that they couldn’t even tolerate being alone together after being born. Why that translated to his closeness with Erica over Isaac, he’d never know. “We are as close as two betas can be, as two of the same family can be.”

“That’s nice.” Stiles smiled at Derrik, sitting down on his bed. Derrik took to leaning against the drawer in the corner of the small quarters. “I didn’t have many children my age growing up. I was really happy when I got Scot, and maybe that’s why I react so poorly whenever we are separated.”

Derrik remembered how he first met Stiles, roaming in the Stilinski wood to feel closer to his brother. “It’s a sign of a good wolf.” He offered the man.

The compliment did not seem to land in its intended spot. Instead, Stiles’ scent turned sharp and he cut his eyes to the ground. Derrik waited for whatever he was warring with. “Do you think…will I have to take the bite, then?”

“Never,” Derrik swore. “Not unless you want to. There are all sorts of things that could go wrong,” a brief memory of Paige, “and so my mother would never force you to.”

It was as if he had cut invisible strings that were holding Stiles taut. The prince relaxed onto the bed. “Okay. That’s good. I don’t know if I want to be—no offense.”

“None taken.”

“It’s just that, I saw Scot before he learned control and he was always very calm beforehand so, it makes sense that it was easy for him. I’m not sure if it would be easy for me.” Stiles let out a nervous laugh. “Also, I don’t know how it would work with me as King of Stilinski and beta of another kingdom’s ruler.”

Derrik inclined his head. “I could see how that might stir up some disquiet.” His mother would give up her crown before the Alpha power to Laura, allowing her to slowly accumulate to the power. In Hale, it did not matter that there were two rulers for a time, as the pack usually had one purpose and overarching mind. There were even instances, in the distant past, of a Queen and an Alpha co-ruling as separate people.

“And it would not bother you?” Stiles’ fear turned itself outwards and his eyes roamed over Derrik’s face. “If I were to choose not to be a wolf?”

“No,” Derrik answered honestly. “I would want you either way.”

The responding trill in heartbeat was as riveting as the red that splotched onto Stiles’ cheeks. Derrik carried the moment with him all the way to sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter on 4/18


	18. Lydia

Seeing trees was an experience that Lydia harkened to seeing water after months in the desert. Truly, it seemed to provoke the same reaction in some of the younger children. The foliage was sparse and unlike Mount Zendar, with the trees being scraggly young saplings and the grass being dry and coarse.

A week prior, Lydia had cleared the extensive list of scouts. Haigh and Vargas had taken lead for two that would stalk closer to the main castle, with the speed and smallness of the groups allowing them to move weeks before the large ensemble. The multiple pack tent city merged into a smaller, blurred group. It still reached father than Lydia could see. The tents were being erected now, as the sun blazed on the horizon. Parrish wandered through the gaggles of shifters on his stead.

Lydia was already off her mount, and she watched him carefully. Sovereign Deucalion had made no move to harm him since Parrish had woken. But it did not stop her from watching.

T’ara was constructing their Sovereign tent behind her with Ser Whittemore. When it was completed, T’ara touched her shoulder gently to take her inside. Parrish felt a deep pang of worry from her, Lydia sent through the bond, and he turned to meet her eyes. After a quiet moment, she dipped her head and followed T’ara.

They had the Silver sea to their right—even through the tent could Lydia hear its call. She remembered days spent in ships with her father, sailing along their coast to see the villages that decorated the beaches. Ser Whittemore slipped off after watching T’ara take her inside the tent. He spent a large majority of his time patrolling the tent city, especially around Sovereign Aiden’s and Sovereign Ethan’s side. She had thoughts on that, but it was not the time to dwell on them.

“Has there been any word since the scouts reached Silverstead?” Lydia asked T’ara while she removed the head piece that kept the sun from burning her.

T’ara took the cloth from her, as none of the wives Deucalion had given her were handmaidens. A life on the sands were hard, and Vatrya would not spare someone that could only offer a frivolous task such as dressing a capable Alpha-mate. So, Lydia did not ask for a handmaid. “The scouts will not send letters.” T’ara reminded her.

She waved her hand, knowing that it was too risky to send too many crows out to the desert. It was unlikely that each scouting party even had the capabilities to procure parchment and write to them. Each had at least one shifter to _read_ , however, so that they may watch all letters passed through the Martin lands. “Has any of the Sovereign’s felt distress? Have they spoke on any issues with pack bonds?”

“Not to me, Lydia of House Martin.” T’ara only used her formal title when she grew tired of the inquiry, or of Lydia’s constant worry. While the redhead wanted to continue, she pressed her lips tightly together.

“Thank you.”

T’ara left to stand guard outside of her tent, and Lydia swapped out the heavy, sun-blocking garments of the day for a lighter dress to sleep in. The bed beckoned her. Lydia ignored it and instead stalked over to the table. At the first dusty town the shifter group skirted around, she had instructed Ser Whittemore to ride in and collect her a new map of Martin.

The map was illustrated with the name _Argent_ , which boiled her blood, but it did not change the fact that the geography was true. Silverstead sat nestled on the beach where it did when she was a girl. There was a high wall that surrounded it from the forest, to keep the few crops they made safe from woodland foragers. It also was the sign of a large city, to protect its inhabitants.

The closest outcropping of people that Lydia could see was a small village by the name of Silver bay, at least a day and a half ride from Silverstead. She had no doubt there some farmers or herders may live in unidentified pockets near the city, but a single man, peasant at that, would not be much a match. If he could send word by crow, the scouts would strike it down. There were simply too many eyes in the trees for her for that to be an issue. But if he ran to the kingdom…

Parrish came in while she still pondered over it. She had not even sat down, instead hunched over the map. A shiver ran through her when he trailed his warm fingers across her neckline. “Come to bed,” He persuaded as his fingers ghosted along her back.

“In a moment,” Lydia promised. “If a man rides to the kingdom, how can we know that he is carrying news of nothing or of us? Do we kill all the riders that get to close?”

Her Sovereign mouthed at her shoulder, a low rumble in his chest. “I’m sure the scouting groups will watch those that go out. If it seems they are traveling to the castle, or if they speak that they are, then they’ll never make it there.”

Lydia turned to face him, straightening up and tilting her head to allow him to place his face on her collarbone. “We never told the groups to kill a person.”

He picked up her wrists, guiding her hands to his shoulders. Lydia stroked along their length absently. “They know we want no word of us reaching Argent ears. The scouts will do what is necessary to ensure that.”

“How—”

Parrish made an impatient yip in the back of his throat. “We can spend all night discussing the plans, if that’s what would really please you. Like we do at the table with the other Sovereigns or on the road. Or you can let me take your mind off of it.” She stumbled into a sitting position on the table from his gentle herding, and when he had her there, he spread her legs to kneel between them.

“Please take my mind off of it,” Lydia breathed.

\--

For a city like Silverstead, there was very few times during the day in which merchants did not flood in or out of the city. The dead of night slowed them to trickle, and as the moon rose higher, they would stop for a time.

“It is when we need to strike,” Sovereign Aiden had an uncanny talent of stating what was already clear to the group.

They were gathered around a small table with Lydia’s map unrolled over it. In the distance, the packs were settling into the shadows of the trees. The tents had not been used for several days, as the trees provided cover and the yellow color of the tents stuck out among the greens and browns of the forest. Parrish was so certain of their victory, that as they passed by small desert towns and then coastal villages, he instructed his Pawas to go and sell to merchants the tents.

The camels were also sold to desert townsfolk, as they would not work well the further up the Sun Road they went. Some of the coin was used to buy less conspicuous clothing, including a dull brown shirt that Parrish now wore to hide his tattoos.

Sovereign Deucalion ran his hands along the map, the ridges of dried ink aided him. One of his wives were in attendance and she had described the geography in great detail. “There is a wall that closes them in to the sea?”

“Yes, it gets lower closer to the sands, until it stops. Right before the docks.” Lydia responded, remembering the stretch of beach that she could duck behind the wall and be outside of the city.

“We should use most of our men to create another wall. There should be shifters in place at every entry point—including the ports. If they have access to ships,” Sovereign Deucalion trailed off.

Parrish shifted next to her. “They will surely flee once Conray falls, if given the chance. We could set the boats on fire.”

“We want to keep the people in, but they will remember if we destroy their property. I will still have to rule them after we destroy their livelihood. We could stop them from reaching the ships just as easy.” Lydia knew how good a shifter’s senses were, how they would be able to determine a pack member or townsperson from scent and heartbeat alone, long before they could reach a boat. “The best thing is to keep them in and uproot Lord Conray.”

“And if boats return from sea?” Sovereign Deucalion’s hand reached across the table to trace gently at the waves of blue depicting the Silver sea.

“It would be best to let them dock. Our packs aren’t known for their ability on water.” Parrish responded.

Lydia had to admit that he had a point. If the shifters attacked too early, the boat could simply pull away from the port and ride up to Gerard. There was a chance that they would not make it before Lydia sat on the throne. But there was a chance that they would.

“We should do our best to take the men as hostages. I don’t want the commoners to talk on how I senselessly allowed their husbands to be cut down.”

“I cannot guarantee our shifters will not kill if the men draw swords. Vatrya believes that if you ask for violence, you accept your death.” Sovereign Ethan spoke up.

Lydia sighed. She did not feel the pull of Vatrya the way that the shifters did, did not know of Her testaments in the same fundamental way. “I ask that they attempt to subdue them. If it is unsuccessful, I would rather Lord Conray’s men die than a single shifter.”

“There is a chance that a boat will not even come back from sea. It is summertime.” Lydia’s mate pointed out. She had convinced him weeks prior that now was an advantageous time to strike, instead of waiting until after the throne was won, due to the fact that the men would be gone from Silverstead.

A quiet fell over the table for a moment. Sovereign Deucalion was the one to break it saying, “We should plan to attack within the next three days. Our people can hide well from the humans of the territory, but we have no guarantee that a wolf will not come crawling along the path. The full moon is soon, and the few wolves we have will respond to it.”

It was a strange occurrence to her, that some of the shifters would birth a wolf pup. Parrish had pointed out that she had not found it strange that a wolf would have a shifter.

Sovereign Aiden sighed, pushing himself off from the table. His twin relaxed next to him. “Then we do it tomorrow night. Are we finished?”

“Tomorrow night…” The Alpha of Alphas trailed off before lifting his hand from the map. “Yes, I think that will do well.”

Lydia could feel her heart speed with excitement, the first concrete move towards her throne mere hours away from her. Parrish watched her from the corner of his eye. His face gave nothing away, but mirth danced across the bond. The other Sovereigns wandered away from the table. They went separate ways into the dark woods, no doubt finding the heart of their section of the pack sprawl to settle down in.

Parrish guided her to through the dark brush until he found their mat. They had kept the bedding only for Lydia, but they kept it none the less. She thought on the best way to quiet the people once Lord Conray was slain. “Tomorrow, when we go into the city—”

“You will not be setting foot in there.” Her mate’s tone was harsher than she was expecting. It disquieted her for a moment.

“I will,” Lydia responded. “The people need to know who there is to lead them. The new ruler.”

“If you step foot in there, then it goes from a shifter pack taking hold of a city in Argent lands to a Martin planning a coup.” Parrish pointed out. “It would be smarter to hide your face.”

“It would be cowardly. The people of Silverstead think shifters savages and will be comforted to know that they aren’t planning to kill and eat every peasant within the walls.”

“In a month’s time, it will not matter if they were terrified. They will know then, when you sit in the Martin castle. You do not know if all within the walls would welcome you just for being a Martin.”

“I am their rightful ruler.” Lydia snapped. But Parrish had the truth of it, that it did not matter if she was rightful or wrong in the eyes of the peasants. They would be pleased with a ruler that gave them money and food. Even if the person who wore the crown killed the last one.

“There will be no reason for taking Silverstead if an overzealous merchant decides to cut you down before you ever take a step out of the walls.” Parrish continued to rationalize with her.

Lydia understood, but her pride wouldn’t allow her to back down so quickly. And to assume she couldn’t hold her own against a simple merchant was laughable. “It’s stupid to think that I would ever be alone inside the walls, for one. And I think I could handle a man who never learned to fight.”

Parrish scoffed. “Men do not need to learn to fight, they are born with that need. You have grown handy with your knife, but pit you against someone stronger and bigger…” He shrugged, a tight line along his shoulders.

Underneath her pillow, where it stayed always, was her knife. “I could best you.” She promised darkly.

The sound that came out of Parrish’s throat was ugly. “You couldn’t best an omega, Lydia of House Martin.” He twisted up her title with a sneer on his lips. Through the bond, she felt worry and frustration, but her white-hot anger blocked most of it.

“If I can cut you, I come in and speak to the people.”

“When you _can’t_ cut me, you will stay outside with T’ara and others.”

Lydia bent to pick up her knife, her fury making the blade’s weight feel like nothing. Parrish crouched into a defensive position and began to circle her. It did not feel as it did when they practiced, his careful eyes and quiet voice guiding her. He had his claws out and his eyes, they stalked her form.

She turned the blade to slice, knowing she had a better chance with the further distance. Lydia felt her shoulders dip down to mimic her mate’s stance. They circled each other slowly.

The first swipe was given away by her heart hammering, and Parrish batted her hand away. Lydia felt her lip pull up and he mimicked—a snarl working out of his mouth. The next attempt came immediately after in hopes that her scent wouldn’t betray her. Parrish jumped out of reach. Lydia pushed forward then and swung blindly. Parrish fell back again.

He would keep stepping back if she kept moving forward, so instead, Lydia moved to the side of him. Parrish followed her with his body, keeping his torso in front of her. She kept moving to the right to force him to shift a foot or so. When he lifted his foot to follow, Lydia struck to the left. There was a startingly still moment where she thought to slice through her mate’s left arm, before his hand came up to wrap around her wrist.

The bones in her wrist creaked and the knife fell to the forest floor. A cry, unbidden, rose from her lips. Parrish stepped forward and kept tilting her wrist until her knees buckled. He followed her down, shoving her to her stomach and covering her body. “I cannot lose you to your own pride.” He snarled, a roiling heat behind her. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Lydia gasped. The emotion he was putting out she did not have a name for. It was tinged in desperation, rage and need. She met it with fervor, bending her body to meet his.

\--

The morning after the raid dawned with Lydia huddled among the trees. She sat on her bedding; body tired but mind sharp. The bond was held close by her, each stretch and bend of it examined. Parrish felt no distress, but that could mean that it went as Lydia planned or that the shifters decided the easier course of action in killing everyone.

T’ara leaned against a tree near her. The Pawa watched her through the night, under strict orders from Parrish. “You would be able to tell if things turned sour?” Lydia asked for the umpteenth time.

Her companion sighed. “If things turned bloody, I would smell it on the morning wind. Things are fine, princess.”

Lydia nodded, the words doing nothing to soothe her. “Will he come back to tell me the outcome?”

“The Sovereign will always return to you.”

And return he did, before the first meal. Parrish stole through the trees and was at Lydia’s side like a shadow. His eyes shone in victory, and Silverstead was quiet. T’ara slunk away from them as he leaned in to scent Lydia. “Is everyone okay?” She breathed.

“Everyone besides Conray of Silverstead, you mean?” The tease in the voice made Lydia smile. A battle won was a battle won when the war was undecided. “Most of the peasants have decided to act like nothing has changed.”

“To them, not much has. As long as you aren’t going to kill them, or starve them, most peasants are fine to switch rulers.”

Lydia learned this hard, when the kingdom did not riot at Gerard. Her father was a good king, a loved and respected head of state, but word of the peasants revolting at this injustice never reached her ears. She understood. Even Lydia couldn’t bring the man to task then. What would a single peasant, or even a few hundred, be able to do?

For a moment, the world was righted. Her mate held her secure in his arms and the birdcall of the early morning swelled around them. Parrish picked his head up from her hair after a moment, hearing something that she could not. Lydia followed his line of vision to see who was approaching.

Ser Whittemore stepped out of the brush after a moment, color high in his cheeks. Parrish would know how he felt from scent and heartbeat, but Lydia could tell from his face alone. She pulled away from the Sovereign to await the news.

“There has been a…an intruder, my princess.” Her knight started off. “An Argent.”

“ _Who_?” Lydia’s voice tore from her throat.

“Kill them,” Parrish responded in turn, waving his hand as if the answer was simple.

“Do not,” Lydia commanded. Her mate cocked his head, as in shock that she would question him. “If they were to be here shortly, or meant to send a letter, or visiting another lord further down, it will alert Gerard. Whittemore, who is it?”

The kanima flicked his eyes between the two in the clearing. “Chris Argent.”

Lydia was not a curser, but she released a short string of expletives. It did nothing for her princess-ly demeanor. “I will go to him with you,” She was already thinking on contingencies. Ways to circumvent the setback. Perhaps write to Gerard and convince him that Chris was taking a delay? Take Chris hostage and begin a war of attrition?

“You will not.” Parrish spoke up. “I assume he came to the city?”

“He did, my Sovereign.” Ser Whittemore answered.

“How am I to understand why he is here, if I cannot go to him?”

“Your kanima will bring him here.”

“Into the middle of our pack settlement?” Lydia was astounded. “If this is a trap, if he is just a convoy for a group to come, then we would give our position away. Further down river would be best.” The Silver sea had many out-branching rivers that connected to it, and the pack was sprawled in between two.

Parrish nodded to Ser Whittemore, who then took off as if his life depended on it. “We do not need the Argent alive to win the throne.” He said to her, when the knight was out of earshot.

“If we want to stick to the plan, then yes, I rather think we do.” Lydia bit out.

“You didn’t ask what I thought.”

“Like you did for me? You didn’t even care to ask anything, before sentencing him to die.”

Parrish’s lip pulled up into a slight snarl. “We are marching to kill an Argent. What difference does one more make?”

“We are hiding in the trees to attempt a coup. Letting Gerard Argent know someone is out there killing Argents makes the difference.” Her hands jerked out in front of her, some instinct to physically show her cards.

“I am going to find T’ara, so that when we allow this Argent to be near you, we at least have good defense. So, if he tries to kill you, like he most likely was sent here to do, then we can do things my way.” The Sovereign turned to leave, an angry tension in his spine. “I’ll see you at the southron part of the river.”

The fighting left a sick feeling in Lydia’s gut. She moved towards the river, passing shifters of her pack who eyed her with a pitying curiosity. Once she got to the bank, she began to follow the rushing stream. It was most likely up to her to pick how far away the meeting would be, and if she chose to close, Parrish would tut at her and guide them farther. It was the thought of being scolded like a child that lead to her to continue walking even when she stopped encountering shifters, when she stopped recognizing the wood around her.

After about half of the hour, she settled down on a small, unused camp site. It had toppled logs for makeshift seats, but the fire pit was grown over in disuse. Lydia didn’t think it would take too long for Parrish and T’ara to find her. It may take Ser Whittemore some more time, as he was walking with a bound human.

Lydia settled on one of the logs, the damp wood soft with moss and giving some at her weight. The birds called around her. The sun filtered down through the trees. It was a sight that she hadn’t seen since she was young, and one that Lydia hadn’t allowed herself to indulge in since re-entering the Martin lands. She titled her face up to the breeze.

“Hello, princess.” An assertive, feminine voice broke her meditation.

Lydia opened her eyes to find a woman, pulling a boat she came from up onto the bank. She allowed herself a single second to curse her stupidity at not carrying her weapon. “How did you get out of the city?” She might at least be able to point out a hole in her mate’s forces. Lydia shifted to a standing position.

“Why do you assume that I came from the city?” The woman countered. She didn’t look of that of the people of Silverstead. Instead, she dressed and looked like a Republic woman. She had wide eyes and wore pants that were fitted to her body. It was most likely that she was a merchant that was caught in between the crosshairs.

She looked upstream the river. “That’s all that is that way. It makes sense.”

“The sea is also that way.” The Republic woman pointed out. “And other, connecting streams.”

“That boat is not made for the sea.” Lydia observed.

“It is not.” She smiled as if Lydia had told her a joke that pleased her greatly. The woman had made no move to walk toward the redhead, or to get back into her boat. It left Lydia feeling wrong-footed.

“I imagine your mate will be joining us soon.” The woman continued on. “I’m certain that he will put you better at ease than my words could.”

The cryptic words did not put Lydia at ease, as hard as it was to believe. She opened her mouth to retort, to ask how she knew who Lydia was, but there was a rustling behind her before she could. “Marin.” Parrish’s voice washed over Lydia, giving her relief and then she became irritated at her response.

The Republic woman, Marin, kept her eyes on Lydia while Parrish spoke. She attempted to keep her face a neutral mask. “Sovereign Parrish. It is good to see you again.”

Parrish came to stand at Lydia’s side, and she watched as he inclined his head in agreement. “What brings you here?”

“You, mostly.” She responded vaguely. “Deaton wanted me to sit as mediator while you speak to Lord Christopher Argent.” Marin’s eyes swept over each of their faces, scanning their responses. “I trust you haven’t killed him yet.”

“No.” Lydia’s answer was curt. “You know Deaton?”

Marin smiled at her. “I do. We offer each other helping hands when the situation requires it. He could not be here,” That was the length of her explanation.

T’ara, who Lydia knew was standing behind them, spoke up. “How did you know that we would be here? Or that the Argent would?”

Her eyes glazed over some, smile frozen on her face. “You are not the only ones watching the birds. Though we do not need letters to know what they have seen, T’ara of the Stilinski lands.”

A snarl tore across the embankment. “Do not associate me with there.”

Marin shrugged. “As you wish.” She turned her face toward the way that Lydia came through, expectant. After a few moments, the shifters did the same. Lydia knew then that it was not the inherent cryptic nature of the Republic woman, but that Ser Whittemore grew close. There came the sound of sticks and leaves being trampled upon. Chris Argent must have been bound in such a way that hindered his movement, Lydia thought. If this was his gait when his legs were free, there was no way that he would have gotten as close as he did to Silverstead.

The man in question came into the clearing with a clean face, barring a slight cut across his hairline. He looked otherwise unharmed. “Lord Argent.” Lydia began formally.

“You’ve got me in enough chains to dock a ship, I think Christopher will suffice.” Lord Christopher interrupted her, as he appeared to catalogue Lydia’s face.

She nodded. “How did you find out about my location?” Parrish seemed content to allow her to lead on this. Whether it’s because he thought it her battle, or he felt some guilt over their disagreement, she couldn’t say. The mating bond was muted between them.

Lord Christopher blinked at her, seeming startled by her question. “Lord Deaton, of course. He passed through the Martin kingdom, to deliver news to the younger brother of Queen Talia and informed me then.”

Lydia looked over at Marin. She nodded, confirming the fact. When she cast her eyes to Parrish, he seemed as confused as her. “Why would he reveal that to an Argent?” She whispered.

“For he thought you would find an ally in this Argent.” Marin responded.

“He did nothing when his father came and killed mine,” Lydia could feel a sneer breaking across her face. “I cannot see how that makes a good ally.”

“I didn’t know then what my father planned.” Lord Christopher rebutted. “And the second I did, I did my best to protect you, princess.” The title was said deferentially, not amused like Sovereign Deucalion or hopeful like Ser Whittemore. Lydia could not deny that. “I lied to my king father about knowing where you were in the castle as he lay siege on it.

“I lied when I told him we found and killed you in the Republic. I have protected my family the best I could—and that was by playing the part expected of me. But I have never wanted your throne, nor my daughter after me. When Deaton told me where to find you, I told my king father that I was coming here to treat with Lord Conray.”

“Your father is not a king.” Lydia reminded him sharply. “He is a pretender.”

Lord Christopher nodded then, ducking his face to hide from them. Parrish shifted next to her. “How is it helpful for you to come down here for us? All it does it pull your father’s eye down this path.”

“It was a selfish want.” Lord Christopher answered. “I knew that I had little chance to persuade the princess once you reached the castle—and I needed to make my case. My daughter, Allison, she lives in the castle and I could find no reason to remove her. Her intended has come to stay. I fear he will not be gone before you come.”

“It was never my intention to harm your daughter.” Lydia’s voice came out like ice. “She was but a girl when your father decided to commit treason. But you. You were a man still.”

“He is but one man.” Marin pointed out. “Surely, you would not expect him to lead a one-man army against his father’s over a treason that is done?”

Lydia cut her eyes away from the Republic woman. She instead looked to her mate. “Is what he says truth?”

“His heart does not tell a lie.” Parrish responded. Lydia knew there were people in the world that could keep their hearts steady even when telling falsehoods, but she doubted that this Argent could.

“I could have Ser Whittemore kill you right now.” Lydia told him. Her knight’s poison claws lengthened in response to her proposed threat.

Lord Christopher’s shoulders tightened up, but he did not flinch from the kanima next to him. “I came here to protect my daughter. Do what you must.” A small flame of pride flickered through the bond, one that Lydia returned. He was a strong man.

“He will instead watch you. You will stay with the pack until this is over. You will have no correspondence with anyone without my and my mate’s explicit permission and knowledge of the contents. Anything you write will be re-written in words that I decide for you.” Her voice commanded like a queen would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm just going to let y'all know--y'all are getting some S P I C E in the next update 
> 
> 4/22


	19. Stiles

Stiles’ first impression of Moonpearl was that it was not a place to sleep. The castle was made of the same stone that surrounded it, that matched the water that rose up to meet the tiny island. There was a bridge between the castle and the town, with a sliver of sea in between them.

The stone was a stark white, one that seemed to glow despite the time of day. The inside of the castle held the same pristine color. He had asked the servants on the first night to cover his walls with rugs as the interior kept a faint sheen through the night. The town was a small one that mostly held fishers and their wives. When Talia came across the bridge, it seemed the whole of the town let out a victory howl.

Stiles was there next to Derrik, bundled into Prince Conan’s coat, shoes and trousers. The gloves that he knew Derrik created were snug on his fingers. The queen was, for lack of a better word, mobbed by the shifters closest to her and endured them huffing at her neck.

“They’re scent marking her,” Derrik pointed out.

“I know.” Stiles responded, walking through the throng of people. A lot also scent marked Isaac, Malia, Boyd and Erica. It made sense, as they had grown up around these people. “Scot enjoys doing it to me at least once a day.”

And Derrik had went quiet at that. Stiles didn’t notice, as he was enraptured then by a stall of wares with a small, white rodent sat in the cage. “I have never seen one with such snowy rat!”

The shifter growled at him, inflecting toward the rat. Stiles got the distinct impression that he had done something to upset the older wolf. Derrik leaned over him. “He’s saying that the animal is not a rodent. It’s a cinchiya—a northern relative to the mountain chinchilla.”

“I did not know that.” Stiles looked closer at the little rodent. Now that he knew what it was related to, he could see the similarities. Both of the creatures were fat around the middle and had rounded ears. The cinchiya was stark white and had a different texture of fur. It made sense, as there was no dust here to clean the chinchilla’s famous fur. “When I went to visit Arrow’s Gate, almost all of the children owned a chinchilla.”

The wolf seemed to understand him, and yet refused to respond in the human tongue. Derrik translated once more. “They are easier to catch. Cinchiya are faster, live underground and are incredibly hard to spot. He says that he only has this one as his cinchiya gave birth and they prefer to live alone.”

The little thing cleaned its whiskers in the cage, pulling at Stiles’ heartstrings. “How long do they live?” He looked to the merchant, letting him growl his answer before turning to Derrik.

“He says his has been alive for twelve years and still seems young. But he doesn’t know anyone else that has one. They like to burrow into you, so they make a good pet.”

“Do you think Prince Conan would like it?” Stiles asked Derrik. He was going to be bound to a chair, and it always did his mother good to have something to look after while she was feeling sick. The difference was that Prince Conan wasn’t going to die from this issue.

Derrik laughed at Stiles, with the merchant joining in after a moment. “I think it might do my brother good. But be careful in how you present it to him. You will either wound his pride or suggest that you’re trying to court him.”

While the implications made Stiles’ face turn red, they still bought the cinchiya. It stowed into the furs of the coat that Stiles had on, finding a deep pocket and burying into it. That was the second day there. Stiles was made aware that they would be celebrating the full moon here, so he would have to brave the cold outside world at some point soon but that was still three days away.

He had planned to spend the rest of the time wandering the castle with Derrik, but after he had purchased the cinchiya, his intended had run off to find something he needed. Cora had intercepted him before Stiles could follow.

Now, Derrik would walk with him for an hour and take lunch but confined himself to his quarters besides that. Erica kept close with him for the day, showing him the library and a small cropping of rock on the tiny island that lead down to a cave. The inside was practically luminescent.

It was during the second lunch together that Derrik haltingly brought up the idea of children. Stiles had been speaking on the little cinchiya and the nest he had made for it in his room, when Derrik had commented that he loved nurturing side of Stiles and how they would have children.

Stiles’ brain froze for a moment. “Well, I thought we would find a child to raise.” He said simply. “And if we didn’t...you are going to have so many family members. And I’m sure Scot will sire some little ones. Maybe even my king father and Melissa.”

Derrik looked down at his plate. They were eating rabbit stew, made with tough leeks that poked through the high snow and tubers grown underneath. “And if we raised a child, as our own, your people would allow him the throne?”

The idea that they wouldn’t startled a laugh out of the younger prince. “We are not so archaic, I promise. If the kingdom were, then you certainly wouldn’t have been an option for me from the beginning.” The wolf still seemed uncertain, so Stiles continued on. “The times are not stuck where a royal party would watch the deflowering of the maid to ensure an heir.”

That brought a deep blush into Derrik’s cheeks. “I am aware.” He paused. “And thankful.”

“Well, I’m no maid, so it’s not like it would involve us.” Stiles joked, watching his intended jerk in his seat. It took another moment for him to realize what he had said that could elicit such a response. It was in the _implications_. “Does my answer not…please you?”

“It does,” Derrik choked out.

“Oh,” He felt his mouth go dry and he cast about for a way to lead them from this simmering conversation topic. “But no, they would accept any child we reared. Once, I got very ill from a cut across my thigh, and my king father thought I would die. That obviously upset him for the idea of me dying. But it wasn’t as if he was without heir at that point—there was always Scot.”

“That’s how it is with us too,” The wolf quickly agreed. “Though Malia is older, Isaac and Erica are set up to inherit Moonpearl. It’s simply because my uncle was married to their mother rather than Malia’s.”

“But if they didn’t want it?”

“It would go to either Malia or Boyd—maybe both. Uncle Peter has been arranging the affairs to be a two-person ruling instead of one for the twins.”

Stiles thought about that for a moment. “How awfully pragmatic of him.”

Derrik chuckled. “That’s a word to describe my uncle, but don’t let him hear you call him that.”

“Is he the type to have an easily bruised ego?” Stiles flashed a grin, imagining the faded image of Lord Peter in his head getting ruffled over something so simple as a word.

“No.” Derrik lifted his glass of wine to his lips. The wine up here was made for wolves and packed the punch necessary to warm him during mealtime. “He would say something like, ‘So this one knows words with more than two syllables? Good on you, Derrik.’”

The derisive tone in the mock-Lord Peter’s voice wiped the smile of Stiles’ face. “He doesn’t sound very kind.”

“I would say his kindness is hard-earned. And rarely shown.”

“Ah.” Stiles was unsure on how to respond to Derrik. He had no similar experiences to recount or great revelation to make.

“Are you thinking about coming out to the Full Moon Festival?” His intended took pity on him and redirected the conversation.

Stiles took a sip of the ale in front of him. The wine that was stored in the cellars were all infused with wolfsbane and much too strong for him, but the ale was safe. “Of course. I didn’t think there was much of an option.”

“You don’t have to come.” Derrik was earnest and sincere. “It’s mostly for the wolves of the lands, but we enjoy humans celebrating too.”

“What’s it like?” Scot had been oddly flighty about explaining the Full Moon Festival to him.

“There’s a big feast out in the village square, and when Mother Moon is high in the sky, the wolves go running.”

“None of the humans?”

Derrik shook his head. “They wouldn’t be able to keep up. Not with Mother Moon making our feet so fast.”

“So, I would come out…?” Stiles didn’t think it sounded fun to stand in the cold, the dead quiet of the village as one of the few humans echoing eerie around him.

“For the feast, of course. They usually spend a whole day smoking a wild boar for eating and make whale-meat soup. It’s chewier than you’d expect.” Derrik looked over to the closed window, eyes distant in memory.

“I’ll be there for the feast.” Stiles promised. “But don’t be surprised if you find me curled up next to the fire after it.”

\--

The next day Stiles woke up to the smell of cooking meat drifting over to the castle. He peaked out of his large window, keeping the shutter close to keep out the cold, and saw smoke rising from the village. He knew that even if he hadn’t told Derrik he was coming, the seasoned meat would be impossible to keep away from.

Every wolf he encountered throughout the day seemed twitchy. Erica wasn’t able to walk at his pace, darting between him and their destination. Cora snarled in such a reminiscent way to when she actually wanted to eat Stiles that he kept a wide berth. Isaac and Malia were already shifted into their wolf form. Each time he passed them in the corridors, they were in a lock of snarling teeth and claws.

The only one who seemed unaffected was Boyd. Perchance that he was holding it in better than the rest, but he saddled up to Stiles easy and calm after Erica had darted away once more. “Did everyone eat a bushel of wolfsbane?” Stiles tried joking.

Boyd remained impassive next to him, and without a wolf’s nose or ears, he had no way to tell if he offended or amused. “It will pass after tonight, trust me.”

“I do. They didn’t act like this when I met them, and the moon had just been full. Or for the time at the castle, even though another moon passed.”

“Why do you follow the lunar cycle?” Boyd cocked his head.

Stiles shrugged, “Scot’s a were. Though he doesn’t act like this, granted.”

“Born wolves feel the pull differently than created ones.”

“You were a born wolf?” Stiles knew very little about the quiet wolf before him. He knew he was from the Republic, and a wolf now, close to his pack. But for some reason, he had assumed that Boyd had wanted the bite and had once been human. It seemed foolish now.

“I was.” Boyd confirmed. “I often thought that was what my father found appealing in me.”

“I didn’t think he was looking for a child.” That was the story anyway.

“Maybe he wasn’t.” The wolf didn’t seem convinced though. “Rather convenient for him to have two more heirs in case his wife decided to take the other two and spirit them away.”

The idea that Lord Peter was using Malia and Boyd as bargaining chips for Erica and Isaac was baffling to Stiles. “The more I hear about your lord father, the more certain I am that I will not like the man.”

“You probably won’t.” Boyd said it simply, as if the truth of it didn’t change one thing or another. “You are optimistic, and he does what he believes is necessary. It’s what makes him a good leader for Moonpearl. The very nature here is unforgiving. The people must do what they must and respect a lord who does the same.”

“Pragmatic.” Stiles whispered to himself.

Boyd nodded. “Are you coming to the Festival tonight?”

“Yes, I am looking forward to the feast. I know I’m not going to be running, so I’ll probably go to bed with a full stomach after.”

“Would you like some advice?” His voice didn’t suggest what kind of advice it would be, or if it was something to excite Stiles.

“Sure.” At best, it would help Stiles around Moonpearl. At worst, he wouldn’t listen to it. And then Boyd would think he was shunning him. Oh, that was worse.

Boyd watched Erica, as she loped back toward them. “Leave your window cracked open tonight.” Stiles crinkled his nose, imagining the way the cold would creep along his room. “Trust me.”

“I don’t know how you two can just meander around like your very bones aren’t alive. Don’t you want to go for a run?” Erica started speaking before she stood before them, energy making her loud.

“I think Stiles has a lunch with Derrik. But I’ll go for a run with you.” Boyd offered. Erica got a shine in her eyes, cheeks already flushed from the cold and relentless activity she placed on her body. She turned to Stiles to see if the plan suited him.

“It is about time for Derrik and I to eat. And I’m in no shape to run like you two.” He smiled while the wolves before him chuckled. “I think I’ll start heading towards him, thank you for the reminder.”

“I hope you enjoy it!” Erica called out to his retreating form. It was an odd phrase for her to say—one that she hadn’t told him in the days prior. It led him to believe that she knew something about this lunch that he did not, and it raised nervous fluttering in his stomach.

Derrik and he often ate in a small alcove, with enough privacy to speak but enough visibility to retain modesty. Stiles walked there with the expectation to be seating and waiting for the wolf to show up, as he was slightly early. It was shocking to find Derrik already waiting for him. There was a large cedar box placed on their small table next to Stiles’ chair.

“You’re early.” Derrik blurted out. It caused the tips of his ears to pinken, something that Stiles quickly learned happened when he felt embarrassed.

“I could say the same for you.” Stiles pointed out, walking slowly to his seat. “What’s this?” He placed his fingertips on the lid of the container.

“It’s for you.”

“Well, I can gather that—” Stiles stopped his joking when he realized what Derrik was implying. “Is this your gift to me?”

Derrik looked up at him from the tips of his eyelashes. He nodded once, quickly casting his gaze away. His posture was tense along the chair while attempting to give off an unassuming air. The lid was a hatch type, one to swing back and display the inside. Settled in on a small pillow was a crown of sorts, made with big, expressive flowers and tiny accent leaves and small daisies to fill in the holes.

The flowers were immediately recognizable to Stiles. “Oh, Derrik,” A swell of emotion overtook his voice. His heart felt full to bursting. “You remembered.” He remembered their conversation—where Stiles asked him to dance with him, when he made the choice to take the first step towards Derrik, when he told him of his favorite flowers. His hand reached out on its own accord, touching the unbeaten fabric that allowed the flowers to stand proud. The back of the flowers was stitched in silk, soft to sit upon his head.

“It’s beautiful.” His scent must be conveying a large fraction of his emotions, with the wide-eyed look that Derrik gave him. Part of him wished that he could know what Derrik was feeling in that moment as well, in tune through senses much stronger than his own. “Thank you.”

“You like it?” Derrik asked as if he needed to be sure. As if he didn’t believe Stiles’ heart.

“I love it.” Stiles let his conviction bleed through his voice. “It’s a splendid piece of art.”

“Thank you,” Derrik whispered. For some reason, the praise made him act as if Stiles’ had struck him and he curled in on himself. It tugged at something in Stiles’ chest, not his heart but something adjacent.

He let the lid close slowly and walked over to his prince. Derrik watched him with hooded eyes. When Stiles was standing in front of Derrik, he plucked his hands from the table where they rested, pulling them up to his lips. He brushed his mouth along the knuckles, his soft breath moving the tiny hairs on Derrik’s hands. “Thank you,” Stiles replied, his lips grazing the wolf’s fingers.

Derrik shuddered and his eyes drooped. It made Stiles feel powerful, made him feel heedless. A roaring need surged up inside of him and he avidly tracked the way his prince responded to the touch. He opened his mouth against the fore knuckle, darting his tongue out to _taste_. Derrik shut his eyes hard and a whine dragged from his throat. Stiles stared at him all the while, one taste not enough for him, not enough at all. He went to place two fingers on his tongue, to attempt to satiate this burning desire, when a throat cleared from behind them.

“My princes?” Stiles released Derrik’s hands and exhaled hard. Standing just within the alcove was one of the few humans of Moonpearl, a handmaiden, Reckin, who had been tasked specifically to Stiles. As almost all of the wolves spoke in the wolf tongue, he needed to have someone with whom he could communicate. Reckin held two trays in her hands.

And like that, the spell was broken.

\--

The beginning of the Festival, the feast, was lovely. Stiles had been to many a banquet, feast, and ball in his long time in the Stilinski lands. Queen Melissa loved a good soirée. It helped to keep the lords and ladies satisfied with the court life and less interested in the art of war.

When Stiles made it down to the festival, most of the Hales were already present. They had been going in pairs or by themselves throughout the day and thus, Stiles made the journey alone. He had wanted to make it alone, as he wanted to surprise his prince. Upon his head, he wore the flower crown that Derrik had constructed for him. During lunch, the wolf had shyly explained that it was an intimate gift, as his scent had melded with the fabric. Any shifter he encountered would know that Derrik, or a wolf they did not know, was so close to Stiles that he carried his scent.

There was a rhythmic drumming of ten men that encircled the square. A large fire, with a massive boar, was in a fire pit in the middle of the square. Wolves cut off pieces of the meat with their claws.

In a loose circle, around the warming fire, groups danced to the drums. Stiles had spotted Cora and Queen Talia dancing with a village woman in a small group. The movements were repetitive—a turn to the spot where the last dancer was, looking out from the group and tossing head and hands skyward, then facing the circle and turning to the next step.

Some of the dances were so complicated that Stiles didn’t even understand the movements after watching. Erica was joined with three village wolves, as they danced away from each other with mimicked foot patterns and then back in, only to connect hands and, in seemingly random fashion, each duck underneath the hand bridge to stand in a new spot of the group.

Stiles looked away after a moment. He scanned the crowd for Derrik and came up empty, though he knew that his prince was here. Malia materialized at his elbow, startling him. She held a chunk of meat out to him. No one else held plates, so Stiles took the meat in his own hands as well.

It was warm, but not to the degree that the fire would have been. She must have held it long enough to cool it for his weaker human hands. “Thank you.”

Malia ignored his gratitude. “You won’t see Derrik tonight.”

“Oh?”

“He’s closer to his wolf tonight, of all nights. And with you wearing his gift, so richly smelling like him… I can see how it would be hard not to claim you right now.” She spoke so candidly, as if she wasn’t causing Stiles to flush red. “I imagine neither of you want a public claiming.”

“Uh, no.” The excitement he felt that Derrik wanted him that much met the tip of an icy finger trailing through his stomach at the idea of being shoved down in the snow, here of all places.

Malia nodded. She was naked, juices from the boar glistening on her chest and abdomen. Stiles found it much easier not to stare, as the nudity had worn off in novelty. “Why aren’t you shifted?” He realized that for the last two days, he had only seen her in her coyote form.

“Wanted to eat,” She explained. “I can only take from the boar with my own claws, and as a coyote, I can’t reach it without burning myself.”

“No one would get it for you?” He looked down at the boar meat in his hands, gifted from her. His mouth watered and he tore a chunk off. It was spiced with ginger root, sea salt and a flavor he couldn’t identify. The meat was wet, as if it was soaked in the sea brine to give such a strong taste.

“I’ve got two hands. After you turn eight in Moonpearl, if you’ve got the means, you do it yourself.”

“I’ve got two hands as well.”

This caused the were to shake her head. “Not the right kind of hands. You don’t have the means to cut the meat off, so I do it for you. Or Derrik would, if he could be in sight of you without sticking his co—”

“Oh my Gods,” Stiles exclaimed, backing away from Malia. She watched him, dead silent, as his body felt the need to release nervous chuckles.

He turned away when he was certain she had no plans to follow him. Erica stood before him, close enough to be shocking, and with a certain maniac look in her eye that made him more ill at ease. “Do you want to learn a dance?” She asked, vibrating in her spot.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to do the one you were doing earlier.” He responded, taking another large chunk of meat from his hand. Stiles was eating in earnest now. Erica was not going to accept a refusal, and he wanted to finish the boar.

The wolf waved her hand, dismissing his worry. “I won’t teach you that one, but you can learn one. Maybe the one we teach the six-year olds? Or do you think that will be too complicated for you?”

“Hey,” Stiles started, hurt, until he noticed the joking twist to her lips. “I am certain that you have six-year olds here that are better dancers than me.” His hands were wet from the meat, but he was uncertain if he should wipe it on his clothes—how would Prince Conan respond to a ruined fur—or if he should lick it from his hands. It wasn’t that he thought the gesture would be uncouth in present company, but…

“That’s because they’ve learned.” Erica grabbed his hands, unminding of the slippery juices on his palm, and lead him over to a village wolf and Isaac. “I’ve found a fourth dancer!” She declared.

“We didn’t need a fourth for this one.” Isaac pointed out, eyeing Stiles. His increased senses seemed to make him aggressive, haughty, and cynical. Perhaps it came from his lord father.

“That’s no way to include Stiles.”

“Stiles doesn’t have to be included,” Stiles self-volunteered.

Erica hushed him, and then set about explaining the dance to him. It was the one that Cora and Talia were doing earlier. The added advantage of seeing the dance allowed Stiles to catch on with relative ease. The drumming lulled him, until Stiles felt as if there was nothing in his head and his body moved on its own accord. Heat rose from him, and he shed his outer fur.

His heart pumped strong and sure and he felt connected to the group around him. When the dance slowly shifted to include a few new steps—stepping out from the circle and dipping down with the right hand, placing a palm in the center as they traded spots—Stiles found it easy to incorporate.

It may have been hours before they stopped. The moon was much higher in the sky than when they started, and what broke the group concentration was a high, long howl emitted from Queen Talia. The wolves snapped to attention the second that it started, but in a dazed state, it took Stiles a moment longer. Sweat poured from his face, and somehow, the crown stayed seated on his head.

When the howl tapered off, the village rose to reply in like. Their collective howl was still finishing when Queen Talia took off into the wood. The wolves responded in vigor, the boar forgotten and the drummers abandoning their tools. A few elder shifters and humans remained, and they turned to go to their homes.

Stiles was still struggling to catch his breath. The trance he was under had not allowed him to feel the fatigue, but he had forgotten what long length dancing could do to exercise the body. He picked up the fur he had discarded on the ground, somehow several yards away from where he now stood. Stiles did not recall throwing it, but he also didn’t think their dance carried them away from their original spot.

The trek home quickly chilled him, but the added lay of fur left his skin in a strange, clammy state. Reckin was at the castle doors when he arrived. “Will you draw me a warm bath?” Stiles asked the handmaid.

“I will if you wish,” Reckin replied. “But I think you may want to wait until tomorrow for it.”

“Is this a Full Moon Festival tradition?”

Reckin paused, thinking on his question. She nodded. “I would say that it is something like that, yes.”

Then she bid him a good night and scurried off toward her village home. Very few of the servants lived in the castle, and very few people of Moonpearl did not serve the lord in some way. Stiles wondered why she hadn’t been present at the festival.

His bones ached as he creaked up the stairs of the castle. His lodging was on the second floor. The window had blown open from the wind with the latch frozen in an open position. Stiles pushed it as closed as he could, remembering Boyd’s words and deciding not to thaw the latch and shut out the outside. A low fire idled in the hearth next to his bed and Stiles tossed some white birch wood onto the simmering ashes. The dry wood quickly caught flame.

He had managed to strip off his rather impressive set of layers, with the added benefit that it allowed his skin to dry from the cool air. Stiles placed his sleep clothes next to the fire. It created a warmth that would transfer to his sheets. His sleep clothes here consisted of two pairs of cotton pants, an undershirt, an overshirt and then a thin coat.

Stiles was luxuriating in the feel of soft, dry, warm clothes when a howl sounded off far too close to the castle to be the wood. It made him creep to his open window and peek out to what he might find. Beneath his window, a figure stood on the reflective Moonpearl rock.

Derrik.

The prince tilted his head up and sent back another howl. Unlike the first, that felt like a greeting, this felt like a warning. Stiles watched his intended draw his muscles taut and then run towards the castle wall. It would be dishonest to say he could feel it when Derrik managed to sink his claws into the stone and begin climbing up, but the ground beneath his feet shook like he did.

Stiles cast his eyes around his room, hurrying to close his door. His bedding was pulled back like an invitation. The very thought made Stiles dizzy and a frisson went up his spine. Out on the castle wall, he could begin to hear the grating sound of claws beating a spot out for themselves on stone. He went back to the window to pull it open and watch his intended.

Derrik appeared to sense when Stiles was gazing upon him, as he snapped his eyes up to the younger prince. He was shirtless, droplets of melted snow on his shoulders and hair. The face of the wolf, one Stiles had only seen on Scot, was now what Derrik wore. His eyes glinted a beautiful, icy blue. There was an indent on his forehead that pulled down to his eyebrows. Which had disappeared. Despite finding Derrik lovely in all circumstances, Stiles would admit that feature was odd.

Studying the wolf’s features as he stalked closer, Stiles had failed to realize just how close to his window Derrik was. Then he was pulling himself through it, causing Stiles to stumble away from the sill. “Is everything okay? Is everyone okay?” Stiles could tell he was chattering, hands shaking from the cold and nerves.

The older prince stood with lupine grace and placed a hand on Stiles’ neck. It felt like a burning brand with how chilled Stiles had become. Derrik used that hand to push the boy back towards his door, crystal blue eyes following him all along. The hand was effective in silencing Stiles.

His back hit the door with a soft thump, and they stood there, watching each other for several minutes. Slowly, so slowly Stiles wasn’t sure if Derrik was aware he was doing it, the hand slid upwards. Stiles lifted his face to give his wolf space for the scenting. With a soft snarl, Derrik’s hand cupped his jaw, forcing his face even higher. Stiles stared at the white ceiling, the only area of his room he hadn’t been able to put a rug over.

Unsure on how to respond to full moon Derrik, Stiles thought he could wait out the strange behavior. The hand at his jaw did not tighten or jerk, and the warmth begin to move to other parts of his face and throat as well. Then Stiles felt the ghost of a breath on his throat.

If he could feel his own heart in its cage, desperate to break free, how loud must it be to Derrik?

The wolf’s nose grazed along his neck, causing gooseflesh wherever it went. Derrik melded his body closer to Stiles and a warm haze fell over both. Stiles could only liken it to the dancing he had done hours prior. Derrik’s face pressed farther into his neck, lips and beard both rubbing against his throat.

There was a single stroke of Derrik’s thumb along his underjaw before the wolf opened his mouth and pressed teeth to Stiles’ throat. A high, stuttering sound climbed out of Stiles which sparked Derrik to return.

He growled, the gentle slope of his body against Stiles going taut and pressing with insistence instead of contentment. Stiles felt trapped like prey, but with the distinct advantage of enjoying the predator. His hands flew up to pull on Derrik’s shirt, landing on hot, slick skin. The touch sparked another snarl that distorted against Stiles’ neck.

“Please, please,” Stiles was uncertain on what he was begging for. He felt too big for his skin, that his nerves were much too bright and alive to be trapped in the confines of his body.

Derrik started shushing him as he babbled on. Stiles petted at the wolf’s sides with shaking hands as his jaw was released and Derrik moved his lips to cover the younger man. “I can’t—not yet, I can’t.”

Stiles knew he was going out of his mind with how electric his skin was. He wanted to kiss Derrik, but he could only pull in enough breath to keep his vision from swimming. Derrik continued on comforting him, rubbing his thumbs along Stiles’ cheekbones. “Soon, we’ll be mated. And I’ll put my teeth there, I promise. I _promise_. I’ll hunt you down in Mother Moon’s grove and pin you to the forest floor and put myself in you and my teeth and hands on you, and you’ll be mine, I swear it.”

It all sounded fantastic to Stiles, who then put his hands on Derrik’s waist to drag his legs closer. “Yes, yes, I want that, yes.” He could feel his prince’s hard cock through his tough breeches. He jerked in response to their two manhoods pressing against each other. His words and actions brought a low whine from Derrik.

As the sound began to taper off, Derrik shoved himself ever closer and pushed Stiles’ hands off of him. “You don’t make it easy for me to wait,” He panted, still trying to shove closer to Stiles. His thigh pressed warm and strong against the younger prince’s erection, causing lights to dance around in Stiles’ eyes. Derrik seemed to give up on getting much farther in the manner he was going and proceeded to hike Stiles’ hips up onto his waist.

The new angle made Stiles vulnerable, but more than that, it made Derrik’s shaft press hot and long against his backside. He scrambled to place his hands on the wolf’s shoulders. “You,” Derrik snarled, bucking once. The movement was like a prelude to Derrik fucking into him and Stiles felt desperate for it. “You, with your begging and wearing my scent on a night like this and what you did with my hand and likening yourself to a maiden—telling me that you want me to take you.”

The accusations were true, and each was met with another thrust from Derrik. Stiles’ hole clenched down on nothing and he shoved his cock towards his intended’s stomach. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Fuck me,” Stiles cried in suggestion. The very words made the wolf pull at him harder, hold onto his hips tighter. “Shove into me, take me, I can take it. I need you, fuck me. Fuck me.” He urged his body downward with his begging. Derrik had his face pressed against Stiles’ neck, mouth tightly closed. “Put your cock in me, then put your fangs in, too.”

Derrik shoved him hard against the door, using it as leverage to hold Stiles up. It pressed the whole of his manhood against the wolf’s stomach, a wonderful friction. There was a fumbled movement with Derrik’s hand as it moved from Stiles’ hip to his own trousers. The thrill of it was so intoxicating that Stiles found himself unable to stop the minute jerks of his hips to give his own cock relief.

Cool air ghosted along his backside when Derrik roughly pulled his night pants down. “Yes,” Stiles hissed, pushing his body down in search of Derrik’s. He could feel the press of Derrik’s cockhead against the cleft of his backside and the slide of his hand where it stroked the length. Derrik thrust up to meet him with a deep growl buried in his chest.

A warm pulse of liquid splashed against Stiles’ hole, so relieving and unexpected that it made him groan aloud. He thrust himself against the wolf holding him to chase his own finish. On a rather aggressive move, he felt the tip of Derrik’s head push into his cum soaked hole. His body seized as he came against the older prince, clenching down on the tip of Derrik’s cock.

The sensation pulled a gasp from the sated wolf, who jolted and slid slightly more in, aided by his own release. They stayed like that while Stiles came down and the ache from taking began to outweigh the good feelings.

He was expecting some protest from Derrik, along the lines of impurity and nobility setting a good example for the common folk. Instead, the wolf helped him down to his feet, back into his pants fully and tucked his own manhood away. His hand trailed from Stiles’ cheek, to his jaw and down his neck. Derrik traced his hand down Stiles’ chest, eliciting a shiver from the human, and stopped at his pants line for a moment. Then he pushed his hand down, mindful to keep it away from the oversensitive cock, and pressed his fingers against the cooling release.

Derrik pulled his hand back out and put his fingers in his mouth. The display of want in vulgarity was too much for Stiles, who thunked his head against his bedroom door and shoved out an exhale. Derrik kissed his underjaw. “Goodnight, Stiles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next update 5/26
> 
> also yes everyone is conspiring to get them to f-hyuck already


	20. Allison

Allison and Prince Scot were sat at a gazebo in the garden, watching the sky through the open roof, when she asked him, “Do you think Lord Peter might be offering his hand to my princess aunt?”

“Why would he do that?” They had guards today, but they were her mother’s handmaidens. Allison’s father had to depart shortly after her birth day festival some odd two weeks ago. Her king grandfather was too busy to chaperone, and Katherine was much too callous to act as one. It left her mother the role, who would delegate it to three or four of her many handmaidens. They were all human, as Lady Victoria had a disposition of disliking wolves. They wandered the garden around the two nobles while one always had eyes on them.

“It would be a way to settle the dispute.” Allison had been thinking on it for a minute. “I mean, she is present in a lot of their meetings. My king grandfather is almost certainly thinking on it.”

“But I thought,” Prince Scot darted a look at the walls of bushes and flowers around them before scooting closer to her. He lowered his voice. “I thought King Gerard wanted to be a wolf. Why else would they be talking about it?”

She shrugged. Allison had kept far from the meetings since the first interaction with Lord Peter, but no Alpha had been summoned and she watched the walks and lunches and dinners with the two and her king grandfather. “Maybe Lord Peter couldn’t give him that. Maybe it was just a starting conversation.”

“What could Lord Peter gain from marrying Princess Katherine?”

“He would be a prince, at least in title.” Allison had always found that tradition of Hale to be peculiar—that he would go by Lord instead of Prince, when being the brother of the Queen. In history books, it seemed to be a common occurrence in the wolf lands. Queen Talia’s had two uncles in her lineage, neither given the title of king. One, who died in a battle, was called Knight Rulan Hale, or Sire Rulan before that in all history mentioning him. The other was still alive, ruling over a small stretch of land in the northern part of Hale and was called Lord Alswick. “Perhaps a piece of land was offered to him as well.”

“Lord Peter is the ruler of Moonpearl in Hale, which does well in trade for its stone. I don’t think that he has need for more land or wealth.”

“So, the title then. It would be rather appealing to have history remembered you as elite.” It was what drove her king grandfather.

Prince Scot still didn’t seem convinced. “It would say he’s the brother of a Queen and Alpha of the Hale lands. Having the title Prince seems a little excessive.”

“Lord Peter seems a tad excessive.” Allison pointed out. “It would be easier to reach the title of King in the Argent lands.”

Her betrothed sat up with that insinuation, eyes wide. “You think he would kill you?” Her mind’s eye flashed to the walk in the garden. “Worse than that, you think your king grandfather would allow you to be killed—you and your prince father and princess mother?”

“I don’t think that King Gerard would allow me to be killed,” Allison hedged. She couldn’t say the same, honestly, about her princess mother. “It may settle him that his youngest daughter isn’t going to die a scullery maid—or the noble equivalent. The way that Lord Peter talked to him, I don’t think he has much longer.”

“But he hasn’t told you yet? Or anyone?” Prince Scot settled back, brow furrowed.

“I don’t think so.”

“It would put a dent in his unbending, all-powerful monarch image.” She knew exactly what her prince meant, how her king grandfather needed to be sat at the head of the table, know the latest news and act as if he was in control of more than the swords people wielded. “Maybe it was blackmail, letting him know that Lord Peter can tell he’s sick?” Prince Scot suggested. “He isn’t well liked among the nobility.”

“Though they do well enough acting like it,” Allison murmured. Even loyalists watched her king grandfather with wary eyes—once beloved by the king he killed—and those who would defect kept hidden their ideals. She had lived among the court for all her life, but still couldn’t possibly interpret the head or tail of the twisting nest of vipers it was. “You are headed home soon?”

The time with Prince Scot had been a reprieve for her. Even with the ever-pressing, ever-present fear of Lord Peter stalking around her mind, the sweet kindness of her betrothed acted as a balm for her heart. The last several days had been blessedly spent alone with him—or as alone as they could be. They hadn’t met in the night since her birth day. Each day was spent eating next to him, walking the gardens and whispering stories. Watched from afar by her mother’s human handmaids, Allison was able to let her guard down and share when Prince Scot told her it was safe. They had less than a year between their final meeting to tie forever and it was this reminder that kept her scent light when asking.

Prince Scot touched the back of her hand, soft and quick. Comfort when she needed it. “Sometime next week, early. I can’t keep away from the training grounds, or my king father’s training room forever.” A solider is what he wished to be, and a king is what he would be. Allison was of the biased opinion that he would be excellent stock in both.

“You’ll write me?” A thread of nervousness worked its way into her voice.

“You speak as if I’m on my horse to leave already.” Prince Scot laughed. “I will write you; I swear it.”

“Do not write me on this, okay?” She gestured out toward the castle. It loomed before them, larger than anything else in Allison’s life. Grandiose in its expectation of her. The movement encompassed all that she hoped to express.

Her prince looked at her with serious, muted eyes. “You truly do not trust your king grandfather.”

“Neither do you.” Allison countered.

“It would be expected of me—prince of another land, allied to a kingdom that he continues to strike out at.”

“You are allied to us,” she reminded him, holding onto his left hand. Where their rings would one day sit.

“I am. But any foreign lord or lady would be right to be cautious around King Gerard, if they knew his history.” As they had poured over the battle logs, spoke on the learned history, asked the older servants, more and more of what her king grandfather was became revealed. And what he was, was something that Allison had right to fear. Her emotions must have bleed through, for Prince Scot hastened to add, “I will not write about this.”

\--

Allison had chosen what she would consider the princess-ly option for the past week, in going to bed each night and mentally chaining herself to her bedpost. She did not ask Prince Scot to meet her in the temple, nor did she wander the halls in hopes that he would hear her fevered heart and answer the call.

She slept fitful each night and woke groggy. Essa had cottoned on to her apparent insomnia and made sure to have warm oatmeal and fresh fruit ready for her when she rose. The day after her conversation with Prince Scot, however, there was no food at her tiny flower table. Essa stood next to her door; her light purple gown twisted up in her hands. Allison looked to her in question.

“You are to be eating this morning with King Gerard, my princess.” Though her voice was benign, a worry creased along Essa’s eyes. Allison had to wonder on what the servants spoke on that she would never be privy to. What did her handmaid know that she could not share?

“Of course,” Allison responded. The young girl would have told her what worried her, if it concerned Allison or if she felt safe to share. They were close enough. “I think one of my pink dresses today. Something with sleeves, for the oncoming chill.”

Essa bowed her head before hurrying over to one of the trunks in the room. She pulled out a dark red dress, with flowing sleeves that was trimmed in a dusty pink. Flowers decorated the cloth as well in the same shade. Pink was not her preferred color, but her king grandfather favored it with her complexion. If Essa was unable to speak—out of fear for punishment—she wanted to be prepared to please King Gerard out of the gate.

She was expecting for Essa to lead her towards the king’s chambers, but instead they took the route to her princess mother’s rooms. They were on a lower floor, near the servant quarters and far from the king. When they entered the rooms, sitting at the plain dining table was her king grandfather, Princess Katherine and her princess mother.

King Gerard sat at the head of the table, with Katherine to his left. He faced the door where Allison entered and had one hand ungloved, the fingers tapping against the grain. Her princess mother sat with her back to the door. Her shoulders were tense, and her spine was straight.

“Good morrow, my king,” Allison payed respects to him first, as it would please him. She was unsure on what needed to be smoothed over. “Princess Katherine, Princess Victoria.” She couldn’t side with her mother her or show support.

“Good morrow, granddaughter. Care to sit?” She nodded, a tight smile in her face as she attempted to rank what would be the worst things he could find out.

At the bottom would be how she allowed Essa—even acted willingly blind—to consort with a sire. A future knight, sworn to take no wife, fucking a handmaiden. How her king grandfather would see it. Perhaps he could be easily swayed by a sweet heart story, how she believed in their true love.

Battling for bad, but not worst, was her letter writing to Prince Stiles and her consorting with Prince Scot. She had written back Prince Stiles when he told her to ignore Lord Peter, letting him know that was not an option. He had never responded. Or, what seemed more likely now, she had never received his response.

On the one hand, King Gerard told her over three years ago to be careful what she wrote. And she was. Just in such a way that he would not know what she was writing. Now that the time had come, Allison didn’t know if she was able to place Essa on the chopping block. Looking at her king grandfather now, Essa would be more than reprimanded, more than tossed from the serving chambers. She could be locked up or killed.

Which was only if she didn’t tell on Allison.

When it comes to Prince Scot, she didn’t have an explanation. She could tell the truth—that the high of the banquet carried her into madness—but she didn’t think it would lessen her punishment. Allison may point out that they would be wed soon but the smart might enrage her king grandfather.

The worst possible thing King Gerard could discover is the way that they had tried to find out his hidden discussions with Lord Peter. The kindest outcome would be that he thought Allison was too curious for her own good and the most likely was that he suspected treason. Allison would not hold up well with her current defenses.

So, she sat there, at what was supposed to be the first meal, with no food at the table and a tapping of fingers against wood. They sat in silence, hearing the rattling breath of King Gerard and waiting for him to say something.

He heaved a sigh so disappointed that it made Allison flinch. Katherine, who sat in a loose, light green dress made of cashmere seemed to flinch as well. Her face smoothed out. “Did you think that I wouldn’t find out?”

Allison noted from the corner of her eye that both of the older women seized up as well. She could feel the panic making her shoulders a little too straight, her eyes a little too wide. Fighting to correct the behavior, she kept her eyes on her king grandfather. He let a moment pass while observing each of them. “Nothing goes on here without me knowing.”

King Gerard looked to Katherine. She faced him back with a blank face, one of idle curiosity that was slightly marred by a high blush on her cheeks. “Are you really so desperate to have a husband that you would not wait for me to make you a match?” Katherine opened her mouth to respond but he continued on. “And to Lord Peter—whom it is not even secret that he killed his first wife? Or that he had an affair for most of their relationship? That is the type of man you wish to marry, so much so that you would go over my head?”

Katherine ducked her head. Allison couldn’t believe that she had the gist of it with Prince Scot. Except that King Gerard had a no part in it, so it wasn’t what he was hoping to get out of it. “I can assure you, girl, that Lord Peter and I have had many conversations to resolve the issue at the border. And not a single one involves you.”

He leaned in close to her. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, my king,” Katherine whispered. She was a loud and boisterous woman, able to cut down anyone when she wanted, but she shrunk just as Allison did in the face of their head of house.

“It will not be hard to marry you off to a simple lord, being a princess and all. I have held off because I want to give you the highest match I can foster. If I could get your cousin married to the next Queen of Hale, and your niece married to a prince of Stilinski, why would you doubt my ability to find you a match? Even without you in direct line to my throne, you will fetch a high enough bidder.

“When the time comes.” King Gerard paused once more. “But no sooner.”

Allison knew that her king grandfather preferred to make his verbal lashings in front of the whole of the family, and his physical lashings as private as possible. But it still felt odd to hold in in her princess mother’s quarters, if it was just over Katherine.

“Now there is one in here that will probably see my throne if I die. I hope to hold on for many a year yet, but when my time does come, it’s almost certain to see Allison with a crown on her head.” His eyes settled on hers. Allison did her best to keep looking at him, though she could feel her face heating the same as Katherine’s. A family tell. “Do you know why I picked Prince Scot for you?”

She hesitated. King Gerard could want her to actually respond, or he could be leading into his issue. If she responded now, would he take it as her behaving smartly? “Answer me, girl.”

“Because he would be a good match,” Allison managed to force out. “Prince Scot has a similarly high level of nobility, but he is not first in line for the throne. So there would be no issue over where to rule, without doubting the legitimacy of the match.” She thought her answer was sufficient and it pleased her. After a moment’s pause, where her king grandfather said nothing, Allison realized her fault. “M-my king,” She added on.

“Because he would not challenge you.” King Gerard responded. “Those are pretty reasons, my dear, but when the water boils out of the pot, what’s left is that he won’t push you to do what he wants. He’s complaint, and I knew you would need someone like that.”

Allison wanted to defend her prince, opened her mouth to do so. Prince Scot was kind and a good listener, and there was nothing wrong with that. A gleam in her king grandfather’s eyes told her to be quiet. “Do you know why I thought you would need someone like that?”

This time Allison knew his question was rhetorical. “Because, my darling granddaughter, you yourself are too kind. If I gave you an intended with half a backbone, by the time I was in my grave, this kingdom would be regaled in his name instead of ours. You need a husband with a will as weak as yours.”

Tears came unbidden to her eyes, and a vicious thought of her being a lot stronger than he thought her. Strong enough will to attempt to figure out what he was thinking of doing.

“Even though I knew this about you, and even though I did everything I could to discourage it, I would never think it would extend to servants.” Allison looked over to the door. Essa had left during the conversation, or perhaps before. It gave her some relief. “Hearing about you and how you interact with them—bowing to a kitchen whench—is beyond the pale.”

Silence swelled up between them. Daring Allison to defend herself, letting King Gerard coil up his distaste. “It’s kind.” She managed to whisper, the sound of the tapping against wood becoming unbearable.

“It is.” King Gerard allowed. “But kindness does not keep a throne. Ask Josiah Martin that. He was the kindest man I knew and where did that land him? Dead.”

_Because of you_ , Allison thought. _His kindness didn’t kill him. You did._

“And then you, Victoria.” He seemed content in the way he had dealt with her, moving on. She was sure a punishment—a real punishment—would come soon. But it would come quietly, without this fanfare and certainly away from any prying eyes. “I would expect disrespect, disregard and lies from you. Is there anything you want to tell me?”

Her princess mother did not have a high blush on her cheeks. It was an Argent tell, not a Martin one. Her eyes were a cool blue and her stance held authority in it. “I do not, King Gerard.”

He regarded her for a moment. His dry fingers scrapped across the wood. It needed a good finish to allow them to glide over the table, but the sound was more disconcerting this way. “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe any of you anymore. Treacherous, weak-minded, conniving. I don’t believe any of you.”

Allison recognized the gleam in his eyes now. It was a gleam of madness, only see in the sick old men that could not believe they were to die. The difference was this sick old man was king of the lands. “I will find out what else you have kept from me. My eyes and ears are innumerable—and I will be kinder if you are out with it now. Away from any ears that are not our own.”

That was why they were down here? So that the wolves—Prince Scot and Lord Peter—could not listen in? She couldn’t even imagine that Prince Scot would care past ensuring her wellbeing.

The three women sat around the table, and Allison held fast to the idea that she would not open her mouth even if the other two did. Katherine was likely hiding something, and her princess mother, if she was, was hiding it so well as to not be seen by the king’s spies. Allison had to hold onto the belief that she was hiding her secrets well enough too.

“Fine,” King Gerard spat. “Be that way. But if you cannot tell me that you haven’t led our kingdom to ruin through secret-keeping and rumor spreading with these outsiders, then you can keep to your quarters. You can keep away from them, and they you. I’ll keep you all locked away if I have to.”

“Father,” Princess Katherine looked nervous at the thought of a lock-up. “You know I have always tried to be faithful to you, to the kingdom. I would never betray your trust and say anything that could jeopardize the Argent rule.”

“I don’t believe you.” His eyes were distant as they regarded Katherine. After a moment, he rose from his seat. Allison followed suit; a manner engrained in her from a young age. Her mother stayed seating. It was the most disobedient act that she could safely pull in front of the king.

Katherine rose toward King Gerard, face imploring. He strode to the door, throwing it open and calling for a guard. Her princess aunt held onto her king grandfather’s arm. When the knights came to escort her, Princess Katherine took on the look of a caged animal.

“Don’t touch me, I am a princess. _Don’t touch me!_ ” She ripped her arm from the knight, and when one of them lifted her into the air, her legs flew out from beneath her dress as she kicked. King Gerard watched with keen eyes, the glimmer all but eclipsing anything else in his eyes, while she was carted away from Princess Victoria’s rooms.

Allison pulled herself up. She would not beg or bend the way that Katherine did. King Gerard thought of her as weak-willed, but she would not prove that here. Before he could turn back to command another guard to take her, she felt a gentle hand on her wrist. Allison looked to her princess mother.

“This will not be forever,” Princess Victoria whispered, casting her eyes to the regent. “This may not even be two full months. Do what is required, and do not fight. Give him no reason to look at you again.”

She pulled away and back into a prim, lifeless position before King Gerard swiveled back towards them. He waved his hand to Allison and a guard approached her. She stood, bowed to her king grandfather and held back a biting remark about how lovely it was to see him one last time.

They left him alone with Princess Victoria, the door swinging shut on the Martin and the Argent. The guard, once she caught a glimpse of his face, was actually a sire. His name was…Marcus? Mason? Her mind drew a blank. But she remembered his family house, settled in the Argent lands with money brought over from the Republic.

“Sire Hewitt,” Allison said in greeting. The guard looked down at her with worried eyes, scanning the castle around them. A few handmaidens were rushing about with linens and there were plenty a servant boy with a scrap of parchment, or a jug of wine.

“Princess Allison,” He said, continuing forward. His lips barely moved.

“I know that it is…not beneficial to be seen talking to me currently.” She ducked her head as she spoke, letting her hair hide her face. “But can you tell me…will you tell me that Prince Scot is okay? That my king grandfather hasn’t harmed him?”

They turned to follow the stairs up to her room. Sire Hewitt did not speak while they walked up the flight. The second floor was less crowded. “As for what I know, princess, he is okay.” Allison felt some tension seep out of her body. “King Gerard has commanded the guard to keep him in his rooms until further notice.”

Allison wanted to ask how they planned on keeping King Thomas from marching through Arrow’s Gates and seizing his son. That was not a conversation to have with a man sworn to keep King Gerard’s peace. “And Lord Peter?”

“Yes,” Sire Hewitt responded. They made it to her door. “There will be someone out here, watching over you, until King Gerard commands otherwise. I would advise not attempting to leave.”

“Thank you, Sire Hewitt, for escorting me.” There was a moment where an intense emotion swelled over her— _too soon_ —and she almost did something rash. Whether it was to run or fight, Allison did not let her body decide. She turned and opened her door.

The inside of her rooms was familiar, but not comforting right now. The door swung shut behind her. Allison leaned against the steady frame. “Essa?” She called out to her rooms. From the smaller dining area, a girl stepped out. She was fair skinned, with strawberry hair and freckles decorating every inch of open skin.

“Welcome back to your quarters, princess.” The girl bowed. She was perhaps two years younger than Allison herself.

“You are not Essa.”

“No, princess.” She looked worried. “My name is Cecily. King Gerard instructed me to keep you company.”

“Where’s Essa?” Allison couldn’t believe her king grandfather would take away her handmaid. Essa hadn’t done anything wrong.

Cecily looked toward the window, mouth pinched. “Forgive me. I don’t know an Essa.”

“Of course you don’t.” King Gerard wouldn’t give her any kindness like that. The only kindness she could hope for in this punishment was that Essa wasn’t dead. “I’m hungry. Will you bring me some food?”

“I’m meant to act as a companion…” Cecily started. The king most likely wanted her to report on Allison’s response to his actions. She did not want to give him the satisfaction.

“Yes, you are meant to keep me sane in this captivity. Part of that is ensuring that I don’t waste away between these walls. I need food, as I have yet had a chance to eat today.” Cecily opened her mouth, ready to argue back, and something mean reared up in Allison. It whispered that she wasn’t weak at all, wasn’t too kind, definitely did not have to be. “You will leave now, and bring me back something, or I will break one of my vases and cut your tongue on it.”

The girl, if possible, became paler. Allison could feel her hands shaking. Cecily ducked her head and murmured, “Yes, princess,” before scurrying out of the rooms.

Allison held it together for a minute after the door swung close, before she let her body collapse to the ground and weep. She bit into her hand to keep the sounds muffled. The very walls seemed to taunt her that King Gerard could still hear her, could still see her, even in her private rooms.

The next day, when Allison woke up, all of her fine, porcelain trinkets were out of the room. That was okay. The bruises on her hand reminded her she still had her teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next update 5/30


	21. Lydia

Lydia felt paranoid to such a degree that she might imagine how Sovereign Kali felt before she died. Each of the Sovereigns had assured her that the scouting packs were working, her mating bond echoing within the pack that there was nothing wrong, and yet.

Yet Lord Christopher Argent sat on a horse next to her most days. He was bound in chains, circled by at least one Pawa and another two wolves. He watched her with empty eyes. They were neither cold nor angry, not calculating or warm. She could not tell his emotions on her journey. Would he rejoice with his father dead? Had he already told his father what he knew? Were they walking to an ambush? Was she leading her people to their death—to her own death?

They had left Sovereign Ethan and Whittemore to watch over Silverstead with most of their pack. Sovereign Aiden followed Lydia, to keep a pack link open between the two groups. Before they left, a letter came for Lord Christopher, from the king, urging him to return home quickly. It was written back that he would return with all due haste, and he would.

Lord Christopher had said nothing to her since his plea for Allison. It warmed her towards him, that he would care so deeply about his own daughter. It gave a sense of his character to her. It also helped that she remembered Allison, remembered her as a friend.

They had stopped for the day and her head ached. She wanted to trust this Argent, at least enough to continue on the journey with confidence. Lydia could not halt them but continuing could mean death. Each option left much to be desired.

Lydia sat next to the fire, Parrish off discussing with his pack. Some would approach her on issues now, and she would help where she could. A child with a fever was sent to Koro. A hungry beta was given food from her bowl. But the bigger issues, the overarching issues that come with a constant power struggle of hierarchy were dealt with by the Sovereign.

Lord Christopher was placed at the fire with her. She wanted him to not be out of her sight unless necessary. T’ara sat on his right, acting as a barrier between them. His hands, while shackled, were able to hold and manage the rabbit stew that they were eating that night. Tyari had been delighted with the new fruits of the earth and beasts of the land that came with the forest. The whole pack benefited from the creativity.

The last day he had been watching her. They circled each other with their eyes, and she knew he had something he wished to say to her, but she would not bring it up first. The careful blankness slipped away into inquisitiveness, neither malevolent nor benevolent, but different. Lydia had waited him out for the day.

“Princess.” There it was.

T’ara slowed her eating down. She hadn’t made a move to snarl at him, or shield Lydia, so the scent he was giving off must not be aggressive. “Lord Christopher.” She used her coolest tone.

“I was hoping to discuss something with you.”

Lydia felt her eyebrow tick up. “Anything you wish to discuss with me can be said in front of T’ara. In front of my pack.”

Lord Christopher winced at that. His beard was coming in now, dirt marring his cheeks. He looked less a lord and more of a wild man. “I believe you feel that way. But it is something I was told not to speak on. It feels ill to leave if unsaid—feels untrue. I just—princess, if there is a chance to go a less violent route when taking the Martin castle back, I strongly urge it.”

A cold drop of liquid fell into her stomach. “The only person who was killed at Silverstead was Conray. The only person who needs to die at the Martin homestead is your father, Gerard.”

“Is that what they told you?” T’ara had yet to move to stop him. She watched the interaction carefully. Though if it was a test for Lydia, she could not tell. Was she to be loyal to Parrish, or was this something that T’ara was forbidden to tell her?

“What were you told?” Lydia rebutted.

“I was told nothing. I was met at the gate of Silverstead, was able to look into the city. There were…piles of bodies.” Lord Christopher looked away from her, throat working. “It was a slaughter.”

“What?” She moved closer to him, setting her bowl down. T’ara let it happen until her body tensed and she stood up, blocking both of them.

A roar came from the dark trees around them. Parrish came from them, shifted. His eyes were two sockets of flame and claws made of fire took the place of his fingers. T’ara stood before him.

Lydia quickly rose as well. “What does he mean?” She demanded of her mate. There was guilt, light guilt pulsing down the bond. What overwhelmed her was his rage. But the guilt was there—proof that Lord Christopher wasn’t lying.

“Filthy, hairless baboon,” Parrish snarled. He hadn’t even looked Lydia’s way yet. “I told you if you couldn’t keep your fangless yap shut, then I would shut it for you.”

Lydia could feel the contempt—the pure anger—that radiated off her mate. The words he used, the slurs, cut at her in a way that she wasn’t expecting. She stepped up next to T’ara, blocking the lord from his view entirely.

“You will do no such thing.” Her voice could cut steel. “You will explain what you were having him keep from me.”

Parrish looked over at her, how she could feel his eyes on her when there were none was inscrutable. He shifted his gaze from her. “T’ara. Step down.”

“Do not,” Lydia immediately countered. Vatrya would rank an Alpha mate and Sovereign as the same of power. T’ara looked between them, before settling back into her stance.

“I was told not to allow him to die, by you, my Sovereign. I will not break one oath for another.” She hesitated before looking to Lydia. “Vatrya commands that the truth be revealed, always, and that the bringer is not struck down for it.”

“I am giving you the chance to tell me what he was talking about, Parrish.” Lydia had never used his name without his title. Especially not in front of others. Especially with this tone.

It pulled the hellhound up short. “You didn’t think we managed to keep everyone besides the human lord alive?”

“That’s what you told me you did.”

Parrish’s eyes cooled down enough and then faded back into the sea green. “We killed no guards. No knights.”

“That doesn’t make it better.” The idea that he killed people—just people of Silverstead—lit a fire in her. “That’s worse. Why would you lie to me?”

“I don’t understand why this is so important to you. They aren’t our people.” Lydia noticed T’ara moving away and grabbing Lord Christopher. She could barely hear their retreat over the blood rushing through her ears.

“ _They are going to be our people! Everyone in this land will belong to our pack!_ ” Birds flew from the sound of her voice. Parrish took a step back. “But you _lied_ to me, as if we aren’t supposed to be a team, as if—”

“I am the Sovereign,” Her mate began.

Lydia cut him off before he could finish that sentence. “And I am your mate. Vatrya made us equal in the eyes of the pack! And you treat me like some common bed warmer, indulge me to my face and then tell the rest to do something different away from me. And then lie about it!”

She whirled away from him, afraid she would strike out to hit him. “How are we to rule a kingdom when you keep secrets within the pack from me? How can I trust you—how can our people trust you?”

“I have always been honest with my pack.”

“Not _me_ , obviously.” Lydia bit out. “And those people you killed? You were in charge of protecting them! The second you accepted my hand, the second you took you me, they became your pack, too.”

Parrish said nothing. Lydia felt the fire go out of her, sadness and exhaustion warring on her body. “What am I supposed to do? If you go out of your way to kill our people, then how are we to rule? And we can’t go back to Cottleg now, not that we’ve taken Silverstead. How will we rule together if you forbid others from telling me the truth? If you decide to go behind me on something?”

“I perhaps should not have told the lord to not speak on this with you.” She heard the earth dip where he walked closer to her. “It is rare for an Alpha mate to get involved in the war strategy. Vatrya made us equal, but that does not mean our experience is equal. Those people would have killed shifters given the chance.”

“So, you lock them up,” Lydia retorted. She was tired. “I am not skilled in the art of murder, no. I did have quite a time with learning politics—even after being dethroned. You may be able to take kingdoms with force, but that is not how you keep them. You have to care for the people.”

“I did not think you would want to know the war details. I thought I would spare you,” Parrish admitted.

Lydia straightened out her back and turned to look at her mate. “I am Lydia Martin, of House Martin, direct successor to my throne. I am the Alpha mate of one of the most powerful Sovereigns in the Cottleg, with over a thousand shifters in his pack. I am the future Queen of Martin and I will not be coddled. Ever.”

The Sovereign watched her with quiet eyes. His face was somber. “I will tell you. Even if we do not agree, I will tell you what is planned.”

“We will find a way to agree.” Lydia argued.

He smiled, looking out to the trees. “If only it was that easy. Sometimes what you wish to do is the Martin in you, and what I say must be done is to assuage the Cottleg in them,” Parrish gestured out to their pack.

“They only keep doing what they have done because you do not tell them they have to different.”

“Vatrya made us equal.” Parrish reminded her. “You could attempt to change them.”

“I will. But none of them will listen to me if you don’t follow suit as well. My words are just words when they can follow your actions.”

He touched her shoulder, leaching some pain of traveling from her bones. “Come to bed.” It was as close to an apology as they would give each other.

\--

The city had grown some since Lydia had been home. Or perhaps it looked bigger when she was in the streets. It was nighttime, with so few people roaming the streets. As the seasons shift towards winter, everyone finds the ability to be home before the sun goes down.

Lydia wanted to come in with Parrish, this time. Even though he had told the pack in front of her, with no falsehood coming through the bond, that they would not kill this time, she would not believe it. She had conceded that many a guard would need to be killed here, and to give them the chance to lay their weapon down.

T’ara was chosen to escort her through the streets. Most of the fighting shifters had darted ahead, using rooftops to jump closer to the castle. Lord Christopher was bound and gagged next to her, cloaked in such a way as to appear drunk on his horse. T’ara led their horses through the streets.

“Will it be done before we get there?” Lydia asked.

“Yes, we won’t be going in until it is secure.” T’ara responded. This journey somehow reminded her of the night in the desert. She half-expected the sun to begin peaking over the hills and exposing the homes around her as part of the tent city.

Before the end of the day, they would be part of the tent city in name.

Lord Christopher was subdued next to her. She imagined that it was hard for him to cope with knowing his father would be dead by dawn. “I remember you, you know.” Lydia didn’t know why she was beginning this conversation.

He looked at her. “Not just as a name in a book, like I remember your father. I remember Allison, how we were friends. I still have the knife you gave me.” It was in her purse at that moment. She shifted her horse some to dig it out of the pouch. Lydia held it close to his face, open palmed. “I would have spared Allison even without you coming. But it shows character that you would.”

She almost wished that she could ungag him. He had willingly accepted the restraint before going into the city, understood that it was the last measure before the dust settled. If Lydia took it off herself, and he screamed to alert the people, then her downfall would be hers alone.

They got closer to the castle. It was sardonic to see half the tiles ripped up and replaced with light purple shillings. They hadn’t even completed that before she had come home—though if it was because Gerard had held off on the order, or that the builders were slow as a form of protest, Lydia couldn’t tell.

“Can you tell how it is going?”

T’ara nodded. “Well. There sounds to be very few deaths so far. I can’t smell too much blood.” That was another aspect of their agreement—that Parrish wouldn’t command T’ara to conceal anything from Lydia.

“I don’t trust Gerard to try and use leverage.” She had long thoughts about how the old traitor would respond to his impending death. Perhaps he would go peaceful or take the chance from anyone else. Lydia was nervous that he may take a hostage in hopes of dissuading. “Lord Christopher is going to point out where Allison’s rooms are, and I would like you to go up and guard her.”

“That would leave you all alone.” T’ara stated.

“Lord Christopher will be here with me,” Lydia responded, shrugging. The man in question was watching her with wide eyes. “And we will keep close to that section of the castle, so you can keep an ear on us.”

“He will not be able to protect you.”

“Not with his sword, no. But his face would keep me safe long enough for you to climb out a window.” T’ara still seemed doubtful. “He is a considered a prince here. No guard would kill him for the chance to get at a random woman.”

“You are no random woman, Lydia of House Martin.” The words lit something of a heat within Lydia. She knew it was T’ara’s way of arguing with her, but it was also a real compliment. In the light of the moon, Lydia could see the shifters nostrils flare, taking in the scent of her interest.

“They don’t know that.” Lydia pointed out. T’ara nodded, looked to Lord Christopher, and then gently touched Lydia’s cheek. Lydia turned her face to have her lips under the Pawa’s fingers. She could be bold now.

“We’ll need to get closer.” T’ara sounded somewhat breathless.

They crept closer to the castle, and Lydia could imagine the chaos inside. She hoped that the stalling had cost Allison her life—as it would cost Lydia a friend and an ally in Lord Christopher. She looked up to her old rooms as they drew near.

When Lord Christopher gestured up to those rooms as to where Allison stayed, she couldn’t help but laugh. T’ara looked at her questioningly, but she waved the concern away. “Please keep her safe.”

The Pawa nodded. Scaling the wall of the castle, especially one as improperly built as the Martin castle, seemed to be an easy feat for shifters. There were even stories that incorporated it to tell how a wolf found his way to his love.

Lydia waited until she could no longer hear the scraping of claws against the stone to take the gag off of Lord Christopher. He watched her with wary eyes. “I could alert everyone right now.”

“Everyone who could change something already knows that there are intruders in the castle.” She paused. “And you won’t.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“T’ara is in there with Allison. She can still hear us and could definitely tell if you were changing sides.”

He inclined his head. “That is very smart of you. But it doesn’t explain why you wanted me ungagged.”

“I wanted to ask you something. About the dagger you gave me, all those years ago.”

“It feels like a lifetime ago.” Lord Christopher agreed.

“It was. For me,” Lydia looked up to the window, the window where she lived when her father was still alive. “Why did you give me that dagger?”

“I wanted to give you a way to protect yourself.”

“As a seven-year-old, I know you realize that I would not be a good jousting match to any of your father’s men.”

The lord looked away from her, teeth worrying his lip. It was an anxious tell she hadn’t seen on him before. “My father has always had a soft touch for my daughter.”

“And he wouldn’t want her to die, so if I used her as a bargaining piece, I may yet have survived.” Lydia surmised. “You were willing to use your daughter as a possible casualty for the chance to let me go free.”

The crickets and cicadas filled the silence between them. “Why?”

“If I hadn’t alerted you, if you hadn’t hidden…we wouldn’t be here today.”

“If you had told my father before Gerard cut him down, we wouldn’t be here.” Lydia pointed out.

“Ki—Gerard, he doesn’t tell anyone what he plans. He took the castle with a hundred of his trusted men, who he only told an hour before what he was planning on doing. I was never involved in what he was doing. It was more like him to tell my sister than me.”

“Why?”

Lord Christopher seemed embarrassed for a moment. “He and I never saw eye-to-eye. He disapproved of my wife, disapproved of how I disciplined Allison, disapproved of my ‘weaker’ nature.”

“He seems the type to see empathy as weakness.” Lydia said.

The man next to her chuckled. “He is.”

“It isn’t.” Her voice was sure when she looked into the lord’s eyes. “Your empathy will see you and your daughter to the other side of this. My empathy is what you have placed your trust in. It is not weakness—not when it can work as your savior.”

“Thank you,” Lord Christopher responded. “I never said it. But thank you.”

Lydia inclined her head, working on her response, when T’ara landed next to them with a soft thud. “The Sovereign wishes to see you, princess. And you can see your daughter now,” She broke his chains like they were paper.

“It’s over?” Lydia felt as if no time had passed with their conversation.

“It is.” T’ara confirmed. “Allison was safe in her room through it.”

“It is a relief to hear.” Lord Christopher rotated his wrists, shoved his shoulders back and worked out the kinks from being chained for an extended period of time.

“Take us to the front of the castle,” Lydia commanded. “I would like to see my mate to the inside of the castle.”

T’ara did not respond, except to take the reins and help her along. The horses made noise as if they too knew that the danger had passed. Parrish waited for her at the gate with torch in hand. She dismounted, looking at his features with scrutiny. There was some blood on his forearms, and a little on his neck, but no visible injury.

Lord Christopher also dismounted, allowing T’ara to lead him toward inside and toward Allison. Lydia knew that in the morning would come that reunion, joyous or not. Tonight, before she rested, she had one more thing she wished to see.

Parrish followed her as she glided along the stone floor. The bumps were remembered by her feet, even if her mind forgot them. There were no servants out currently, dropped linen showing that they had disrupted the end day tasks of the castle.

“Do you wish to see be seen to the throne room?” Parrish asked, as she began to ascend the large staircase that dominated much of the lower floor. He must think she had forgotten where it was located.

“At some point.” The second floor began to rise into view. “But not tonight.”

She turned toward her destination, could feel agitation spark along the bond as her mate followed her. Lydia remembered the hallway, remembered the linen closet where she hid, and Ser Whittemore found her. Remembered how the metal and blood gleamed in the daylight. There were some dark pools hidden in the moonlight now. But the bodies were already gone.

When they reached the large doors, closed—which was unlike her own father—Parrish put a hand out to her. “That is where we found Gerard.”

“I know.” She responded. “These are the king’s quarters after all.”

“We have yet to move the body. I would rather you not have to see that.”

Lydia looked at her mate, her equal and how she came back home, inches from her father’s rooms. “When my father passed, I walked into these rooms and saw him lying dead. The walkway was littered with bodies. The one enemy I have that I would not mind seeing dead will not spook me any greater than that.”

Parrish withdrew his hand, allowing her to open the oak doors. There was a table where King Josiah’s once sat. This one was made with cursed wood—wood of the Hale land. Even seeing it was an offence to the wolves. The room had been redecorated, muted and silver but the walls were the same. There was a jug of wine at the table, and a line of blood from the head seat to the room adjacent.

If memory served, it would be the bedroom. It appeared that Gerard dragged himself from the dining room to cower in his most private of quarters. The idea filled her with satisfaction.

She walked over to the table, placed a hand on the head seat and pulled it out for her to sit in. The blood that was on the back and seat of the chair was tacky, but she barely felt it. Lydia looked at the jug of wine that was displayed on the table. Next to it was a glass, half filled.

Picking it up, it was warm to the touch. It had been sitting out on the table for most of the night, then. Sniffing at the mixture, it would most certainly come from the Stilinski lands. Drinking it like this was an offence in and of itself. They would suggest that the wine be chilled before sipping.

But tonight, it would serve her. As would the heretical table. Parrish stood in the doorway, watching her. Lydia lifted the glass to him before taking a large swallow and setting it down. “To a Martin rule, may our line be unbroken.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yea, so, I've noticed something about most of my writings when it comes to particular characters, and I will share them on basis of their last chapters. Lydia's got one more up, though. So y'all get to wait. Or y'all can guess!!
> 
> 6/3


	22. Derrik

In a right world, Derrik and his pack would be up at the Hale castle, watching over the newborn twins of Laura. In a right world, they may even be discussing his mating ceremony to Stiles now.

But Lord Deaton saw fit to turn their world upside down. His mother had been getting increasingly more postage as they took toward the Hale castle. After the Full Moon Festival, the day after, Queen Talia had taken one look at her son and his intended and declared they should make way quick to home.

Derrik had been unwilling to disagree. The day after was locked in his mind as one of his favorites—the red cheeks Stiles displayed for the ride, how he shifted every few minutes, Derrik sneaking his hand upon the prince’s ankle to leech away some of the discomfort.

Remembering how soft Stiles’ skin was.

Two days later, Queen Talia received a letter from a common crow, and they rerouted course. She hadn’t told them why, but the curve of her mouth led Derrik to believe that it was nothing good. One morning, as they broke camp, Lord Deaton came riding hard toward the pack.

Derrik’s mother, in a moment quite unlike her, took to a horse and rode to the lord. They swiveled to move away from the wolves’ ears. Stiles stood next to Derrik, noting his tense stance.

“What do you think is going on?” Stiles asked.

“I’m not sure,” Derrik said, watching as the packing slowed to a halt. “Lord Deaton is rarely forthcoming on details.”

Stiles laughed, a small quiet one. “That isn’t the impression I got from him.”

“Oh?”

“When I met him, he came into the castle temple and told me that it would be fault if people died.” Stiles’ played with the hem of his shirt. “He was right, but he definitely wasn’t attempting to conceal anything with me.”

“About that.” Derrik pointed out. He wanted to be angry at Lord Deaton for guilting Stiles, but it was done in protection of Hale. “But I bet he sidestepped questions he didn’t want to answer.”

“He wouldn’t tell me what landed him next to Queen Talia, no. I assumed that he was being elusive for her.”

Derrik could no longer see their horses. “No, he is elusive for his own sake. I think the only person he speaks to not in riddles would be my mother.”

“Will she tell us what is happening?”

“She will, if it is important.” _Important to us_ , Derrik added as an afterthought.

Another bird flew into sight, a falcon. News on Laura or on Conan. It circled the encampment, no doubt looking for Queen Talia. After a moment, Erica stepped up onto a closed trunk and made a bird call. It swooped down to greet her, parchment leg extended.

“I wondered how she got the letter before the Queen on the ship.” Stiles commented.

The inner pack edged closer to Erica as she released the bird, a small piece of salted rabbit given as a treat from her pouch. She opened the message and scanned it quickly. By the time she finished reading, everyone besides Malia was humming with energy in a circle around her.

“Laura seems to think Conan is going to make it back before we do.” She surmised the message.

“Did Conan write her? Is he headed back up to the castle?” Cora made grabbing motions for the paper.

Erica kept it away. Probably because Cora’s hands were filthy and would mar the parchment. It was for the queen after all, and she needed to be able to read it as well. “So it would seem. She didn’t say anything about him writing her, but I assume that’s how she found out he was coming.”

“I don’t know how he could make it back before us, seeing as we’re on the same road he’ll be traveling on.” Isaac commented.

“We were on the same road,” Boyd pointed out. Derrik knew what he meant—they were maybe a day and a half’s journey from the Snow Road, but they had veered off to meet with Lord Deaton.

“We’ll be back on it before Conan is even back in Hale.” Isaac said confidently.

Cora looked to Erica for confirmation. Derrik felt the buzz around him, the need to be there to welcome home the eldest son. “She seems pretty certain. Perhaps he made it to this point before us?”

“Wouldn’t we smell him then?” Cora asked.

“Maybe not. The snow buries everything, and I doubt he much got out of his carriage.” Derrik responded. Stiles was watching the exchange, his scent smooth and heartbeat even next to Derrik. Every few minutes he would look to the horizon, from where Queen Talia had disappeared off to.

“Maybe you wouldn’t smell him on the road, but he had to get out to do his business like everyone else. And Malia and I keep in the woods. We would have smelled him.” Cora insisted.

“Could he be using a chamber pot?” Stiles suggested.

Erica recoiled on the trunk above them. “And not empty it each time? That would smell disgusting.”

“To wolves, yeah. But humans can usually not notice the smell for at least two days.”

Erica leveled him with a flat look, saying, “You’re disgusting, Stilinski.”

For some reason, that seemed to amuse Stiles, whose scent deepened with mirth. Derrik watched the curve of his mouth loosen, watched a light come on in his eyes—the one that was ready for a joke. Before he had a chance to respond, Boyd spoke. “They’re coming back.”

And all the eyes moved to look at the horizon. Queen Talia still sat upon her horse, but the beast moved sedately now. Her and Lord Deaton appeared to be in conversation still, but Derrik could not make out the words through sound or sight. Erica landed next to Derrik with a soft thud, rolling up the parchment quickly. He wondered at how his mother responded to Erica reading her mail, as it was not uncommon for the beta to do so. Queen Talia came close before he could ask her.

“Hello, I see we’re all here. Is that for me?” She gestured to the parchment Erica held. When Erica nodded in the affirmative, Derrik’s mother reached a hand out to take it from the girl. “Thank you.”

Queen Talia tucked the message away on a pouch on the horse. Then she straightened up, to her full height, and said, “I would like for you all to head back to the Snow Road, so that you can get settled in at the castle promptly. I have some business to attend to in Argent and will not be able to join you.”

“Is it about the raiding?” Cora asked eagerly. “Are they going to sign a treaty?”

The Queen opened her mouth and then closed it, and Derrik could tell she was thinking on what to say. Before she managed to find her words, Boyd was speaking, “Is our father going to meet us at the Hale castle?”

A spike of panic shot through the pack bond. Queen Talia watched them with wide eyes, clearly attempting to mask her emotions. Erica picked up on it though, asking, “Is he meeting you in Argent? Is he alright?”

“Everything is fine,” Queen Talia started. To Derrik’s dread, her heartbeat faltered. He grabbed onto Stiles’ hand and pulled the prince closer to him. Stiles looked at him questioningly, not knowing that she was playing false. The rest of the wolves did and a chorus of ‘What happened?’ and ‘What aren’t you telling us?’ rose up among the group. The omega servants began to scatter as the mood bubbled. Lord Deaton attempted to settle the group, with a well-timed cough that quieted the pack. Before he could speak, a growl came from the half-deconstructed tents and Malia was stalking towards them in the nude.

“My father is not alright. He is captive to a usurper, to a Martin, who killed King Gerard and will probably kill him as well!” Malia pointed her finger at the Queen. “And she wants you to know nothing about it.”

“That conversation was not for your ears,” Queen Talia bit out, caught but upset at the disrespect of privacy. Derrik swayed next to Stiles, only standing due to the comforting pressure on his hand. His uncle was slippery than a fish. To think him captured, or in any kind of danger, was almost irreconcilable. “The youngest Martin reclaimed the throne—something that was under Martin name until a little over a decade ago. She has the castle and its city captive. Most likely as a precautionary measure.”

“Precautionary measure?” Erica started, incredulous.

Derrik’s mother raised her hand. The emotions swirling through Derrik’s bond with the rest of the pack were disorienting. There was rage, betrayal, fear, so much fear. He couldn’t recall the last time a Hale in the inner pack had died from something other than old age. He had no idea how the pack would survive a death of a core member. Queen Talia continued on, as if she had no clue the emotions roiling around them. “There is no reason to think she wants to harm Peter. Her mate, a Sovereign of the Cottleg desert, is an ally to Lord Deaton. Surely the bond will protect him until I can get there and form a peace agreement with her.”

“Why would you want to form a peace agreement with someone willing to chain and capture one of our own?” Malia cried. There were no other words, but the general consensus from the scent of the pack was agreeing with her. Derrik could feel the bloodlust, the desire to protect, itching just under his skin.

Stiles pulled his hand away and stepped forward. “Was there any word on Scot?” He looked between the two horse-saddled nobles.

Derrik felt his stomach bottom out. He had forgotten that Prince Scot was in attendance at the Argent—Martin—castle. That he was visiting the princess. Was Princess Allison still alive?

Lord Deaton had a grimace on his face. “He was still in the castle when it was taken,” He started. Stiles’ heartbeat kicked up a notch and his hands began to shake. Derrik stepped up to touch his shoulder, which was thrown off by the prince. “There is no reason to believe that Queen Lydia would have him harmed. But my sources only told me about Lord Peter—and for him,” Lord Deaton addressed the group, “I know that he is alive and relatively unharmed.”

“ _Queen Lydia_?” Cora scoffed at the same time that Erica snarled, “Relatively unharmed?”

“I have to come with you.” Stiles said, looking straight at Queen Talia. “You cannot expect me to go to the Hale castle, to sit idle while my brother is held captive—or dead?”

“I will come also,” Derrik stepped forward. His shoulder brushed against Stiles, and this time, the prince did not shove away from him. The wolf inside him could not bear to be parted from his intended in this time. “Please, mother.”

“I’m coming, too. One of my father’s children need to be present, we need to know he’s okay. Not relatively—actually okay.” Erica squared her shoulders, daring anyone to question her.

The Queen sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I cannot bring everyone—it would be seen as power play. And with Peter somewhere behind the Martin walls, I will not jeopardize him. I understand why you want to come, and I can accommodate a few of you. But not everyone is coming.” Derrik did not back down. He always attempted to do what was right by the pack, but with his prince standing there, ready to go, he could not step down.

Cora was the first to speak up. “I will go back home. Laura needs someone now, and I have no desire to travel anymore. Bring Uncle Peter home.”

Queen Talia nodded, looking to the rest of the pack. Boyd stepped forward. “I am going to go back to Moonpearl. I will prepare our troops— _in case_ —there needs to be a war. I will not allow my father to be kept prisoner, and the second I get home, I intend to start marching. I will need you to write to me before we make it to Martin lands.”

“I will,” Queen Talia promised. “I will also tell you if the troops are needed. So that you can rally more to the cause on your way back.”

“I’ll go with Boyd,” Malia volunteered. Derrik could feel the tension between the Alpha and the werecoyote in the air.

“That would probably be for the best.” His mother said. All that was left was Isaac, he looked from Erica to Boyd. Derrik wondered what he was thinking. Isaac was good at hiding his emotions, good at picking them out.

He sighed, running his hands through his hair. “I’ll go with Cora. She needs someone to keep her out of trouble until she gets home.”

Queen Talia bid them to gather their omegas and their things, to get ready for the journey ahead. She asked Stiles to stay back, which caused Derrik to hover also. He was nervous that his mother was going to ask him to leave the prince’s side, but she just smiled at him. She moved off the horse, bringing herself down to Stiles’ level. “They will have easier journeys. Isaac and Cora especially—with no need to rush. The pace that I will set for our troop is going to be a hard one. I don’t want you surprised, but I need you to keep up. I cannot describe to you what it feels like to know my brother is trapped behind walls.”

“I can keep up.” Stiles said coolly. His eyes went flat for a moment and lightening pulsed along his scent. “And you do not need to describe what it feels like—as I am feeling much of the same.”

Derrik knew that his mother might choose to point out that Prince Scot and Stiles lacked a pack bond, but then thought better of it. Instead, she nodded. “Take only what you need.”

\--

That night, they were getting into red mud territory. It would take maybe a week and a half more to reach the Martin castle, nestled high in the lands as it was. Derrik was worried over Stiles though. He never faltered on his horse, riding next to the loping form of the Queen wolf and Derrik. But when he unsaddled for the night, his feet hit the ground unevenly and his body reeked of pain.

The only consolation was that Lord Deaton seemed to be affected as well.

They ate salted meat and quickly gathered roots around a weak fire that night. No one spoke much, and the two omegas that were chosen for the journey retired quickly. Stiles and Lord Deaton would be sharing the only tent they took with them. It was to protect the humans from frostbite, as they were both ill-equipped for floor sleeping. The wolves—including the omegas—took to a pack pile. Erica eyed Queen Talia for a moment before shifting and flopping down next to the Alpha. Derrik would like to believe that it meant all was forgiven.

Lord Deaton was walking along the perimeter of the campsite, so Derrik took to the tent where Stiles retired.

“Stiles?” He called out.

A muffled reply came back. “Come in.”

Stiles was still in his riding wear, lying face down on his bed. Derrik pulled out a green salve from his pouch. He had asked for it when they left the group, managed to find and pay one omega servant for the ointment. He walked over to the human prince, pulling him up to a sitting position.

A groan ripped from Stiles. “Don’t. Dying.” He fought weakly against Derrik, his face wet and eyes puffy.

“You’ll feel better if you let me get you out of these clothes and put some healing salve on you.” Derrik argued.

Stiles cracked an eye, “Where did you get something to help me?”

“I had to ask basically the whole encampment before we left. I figured you might need it.”

“Thank you,” Stiles responded. His scent went soft at the edges. “For thinking of me.”

“I am always thinking of you,” Derrik responded. It was true, but he didn’t expect the surge of arousal from Stiles for saying it.

His prince swatted him on the arm. “Don’t. Don’t say things like that when I’m in too much pain to do anything about it.” There was a high blush on his cheeks, and even though the undercurrent of pain permeated his scent, there was also want.

Derrik sat the salve on the bed, kissing Stiles’ cheek. “You don’t have to do anything,” He whispered. He wondered if they were far enough away from the pack pile for his mother not to hear them. Something about Stiles brought out a need that superseded nobility rules. “Let me take care of you.”

He slid his hand up the rough material of Stiles’ pants. The movement earned a hiss from the human, who shifted closer still. Derrik kept going. His mouth trailed from his cheek to neck, and Stiles lifted his chin up to give better access. The scent of him filled Derrik.

One of Derrik’s hands found its way under Stiles’ shirt, pressing against the taut skin and taking his pain. When the prince went lax against him, Derrik pulled Stiles into his lap. “Oh,” Stiles breathed out. The sound of his enjoyment had Derrik’s claws popping out, which only made his mate groan louder.

“Shh,” Derrik didn’t want to have the other wolves hear. As they were, he could barely make out their huffing, sleeping breaths. “Not too loud.” He slid his other hand over the bulge in Stiles’ pants. The boy clenched his teeth, hissing at the sensation. Derrik pulled his lips away, much as it pained him. “Use my shoulder to cover your noises.”

Stiles moved his face to the juncture of neck and shoulder, little whines buried in the wolf’s skin. The weight and smell of him made Derrik ache. His cock nestled upward through their clothes, making a sliding space at Stiles’ backside. “Good, that’s good, Stiles.” Derrik kept his hand above the pants, pressing his palm flat against his mate’s cock. “Let me give you what you need.”

“Please, please, Derrik,” Stiles panted at his ear. The words barely had any sound at all, but the only thing louder in the room was the prince’s heartbeat. Derrik ground his hand down.

“I’ll give you anything you want,” Derrik promised. He would. With Stiles jerking his hips, adding friction to his own arousal, there was little to nothing Derrik would not give him. “Just let me, you just have to let me.”

The hand that was sucking away at the man’s pain worked its way to Stiles’ back, two fingers on his flesh and the other two pressed firmly against the pants hiding his ass. Derrik used it to pull and push Stiles against his other hand. Stiles began to jerk his hips, arrhythmic to Derrik’s pace. His scent built upon itself, his whines filled Derrik’s ears. The wolf knew that the only reason his own cock wasn’t rubbed raw was due to the precome that made his front sticky. The moments blurred into sound and feel of Stiles. He came back to himself, realizing he had been murmuring to Stiles, “Good, you’re doing so well, you’re so good for me. Sweetheart, so good for me.”

Stiles tensed and bit at Derrik’s shoulder hard. A cry echoed through the wolf’s bone, as the smell of release hit Derrik. Derrik moved his hand through the aftershocks, letting Stiles chase his pleasure as long as he could. The prince in his lap went loose and he moved his hand away from the spent cock, placing both on Stiles’ hips. Now that his mate was sated, his own need pressed forefront in his mind. He swore his very pulse was in his cock, with how insistent and painful it was.

Derrik imagined the clothes off of them, imagined that he was grinding into Stiles, back into that slick heat that he only had a taste of before. With his mate so relaxed above him, he was ready to be taken. Ready to be filled up, ready to be _knotted_.

The thought of it was intoxicating enough to push Derrik over the edge. He shoved Stiles down onto him, riding the high of his own orgasm and overplaying it in his mind that he finished within the prince.

After a moment, Stiles tucked his nose into Derrik’s throat. It tickled somewhat, but not enough for Derrik to attempt to move away. “The pants are ruined.” Stiles slurred out.

“No they’re not,” Derrik shushed him. He ran his fingers through the man’s hair, letting the repetitive motion ease both of them. “I’ll take them and wash them tonight.”

“Wash them so that they can’t tell what we’ve been doing?” Stiles asked.

Derrik would need some soap for that to be accomplished, but what Stiles didn’t know that Queen Talia knew couldn’t hurt him. Not in this area. “I’ll do my best.”

“Okay,” Stiles slumped off of him, rolling onto his bed. “I’m ready for bed now.”

“We’ve got to get you out of those clothes first.” Derrik pointed out. “And I need to put this salve on you. You might feel good right now, but I promise that the morning you’ll feel worse without it.”

“You do it,” Stiles waved toward Derrik. It gave him the blanket permission to unwrap Stiles from his clothes, and he used the dirty pants to clean up the rest of Stiles’ spend. He then rubbed the green salve into the human’s thighs, which were an angry, chafed red. Stiles murmured incoherently throughout the process.

Before Derrik left, he ragdolled Stiles into some bed clothes. The prince may not thank him for it tonight, but he wouldn’t want to be naked around Lord Deaton in the morning. Or attempt to fetch clothes in the nude, in the current weather.

\--

Derrik fell into a rhythm the next few days. They would eat dried meat and fruit, ride hard until high noon, and break for a lunch of gathered plants. Once, Erica or one of the omegas hunted down a rabbit and they’d had some meat. During each break, Derrik would tend to Stiles’ thighs. They began to purple the longer the human sat upon the saddle. Derrik would stuff wool shirts between the horse and Stiles, which helped somewhat.

Stiles refused to complain around his mother, most likely afraid she would send him home. Queen Talia had kept to herself on the trip. Derrik watched her drift closer and further from the pack and from Lord Deaton. Erica seemed more upset at his mother than the lord, and Stiles wouldn’t even speak to Lord Deaton. From what he knew, they hadn’t exchanged a word since the travel began. Not for lack of trying on—strangely—Lord Deaton’s part.

There was an air around the prince, a roiling, low boil anger that seeped out of him whenever his mind was elsewhere. After the first night, Derrik hadn’t tried to relax him before the salve treatment. They were both too tired. And so, each time that he would rub Stiles’ thighs, the human’s eyes would wander to Lord Deaton’s bed and his scent would sour somewhat. Derrik was hoping that they would have it out before they reached the Martin castle, or that they would never speak again. Either would be a fine option, considering how distrustful Lord Deaton was.

Erica, on the other hand, would have it out with Queen Talia at every given opportunity. It was like a swollen wine pouch. A small amount of the expanded air would be released, but the wine was not allowed to breathe, and so it rose up again. Every time Erica snapped at his mother, she would snarl her down. There was no release.

Derrik was almost ready to facilitate their fighting, just so they could lick each other’s wounds.

The second morning, Erica rolled over and transformed. When Queen Talia began to dress and instructed her to do the same, Erica said, “Oh, are we expecting guests? Or is this something else you think you can’t tell us?” And went naked for the day. She full-shifted after an hour, since it was still too cold for foolhardy stubbornness.

The third day, a letter came. Erica got to the bird before the Alpha and snarled, “Not everything is for you.” When his mother came to collect the parchment. The Queen showed her teeth and called Erica insolent.

The last two days had amounted to frigid silence. Derrik didn’t know why his mother didn’t just pin her and roar submission back into her bones. It’s what she did every time one of her children had an issue with her—and it worked well enough. For everyone besides Laura.

About four days out from the Martin castle, Derrik woke to a change in the air. He had long felt like he was the only one here not stretched to snapping, but today felt like the day someone would break. He helped Stiles saddle his horse, shooing away an omega servant in the process. Stiles was in the habit of scent-marking him as thanks, but today he just swung up on his horse. His eyes had a stare that stretched forever. Derrik ran close to his horse, watching the human who seemed to be so far from his seat. The wolf was afraid that he’d fall off and die.

When they broke for lunch, Stiles didn’t touch his food. “Stiles,” Derrik gestured to the bowl. It was berries plucked from bushes next to where they stopped. They also had small fish collected from a nearby stream. His mate didn’t even look down at the bowl.

“Queen Talia,” Stiles said, his voice devoid of any emotion. His scent had been flat since the morning. Derrik looked to his mother, scent marred with anxiety. “I have been wondering. If they have killed Scot, and still hold your lord brother, what do you plan on doing?”

“What do you mean?” She sat her bowl on the ground next to the rock she perched on.

Stiles titled his head, examining Derrik’s mother. He thought he was good at determining Stiles’ thoughts or emotions, but nothing bled through the gaze. “I mean what I said. You wanted my father as an ally. If they’ve killed an ally, what will you do about it?”

“Stiles,” Queen Talia spoke carefully. “They have my brother. My first priority is to get him back.”

“Is it a high enough priority to forgo your responsibility to Stilinski?” Derrik understood what Stiles was asking—would his mother broker peace for Lord Peter. And he knew she would. Stiles rubbed at the edge of his bowl. “I’ve been wondering where that will leave us. With both of us having close family as captives, who knows if either of them are alive or dead. If one or the other is the one that got to live.”

Lord Deaton coughed delicately. Derrik hated the relief he felt for the man’s intrusion. Of all the directions the bow would break, he didn’t think it would be Stiles fighting his mother. She was a full Alpha and could seriously harm him if she felt disrespected. Derrik could already feel his muscles uncoiling from where they readied to spring and protect his mate. “I can say, with almost utmost certainty, that Lord Peter is alive. I believe that Prince Scot is as well. Lady Allison and Queen Lydia were good friends as children, and she does not strike me as the type to kill unnecessarily.”

“They were friends before _Princess_ Allison’s grandfather killed her father.” Stiles scoffed. “For all we know, she’s strung the poor Argent girl up for revenge, and killed Scot just for being her betrothed. Lord Peter’s probably made it out by being an enemy of King Gerard, plain and simple.”

“The Cottleg shifters don’t believe in torture.” Lord Deaton began. His eyes never strayed from Stiles’ face, but his mouth twisted as if he looked upon something unsavory. “Queen Lydia’s mate is an ally of mine. I made insurances that Lord Peter would be safe—regardless if he made peace with Gerard Argent before.”

“So you could make insurances for him, but not for Scot? What was it that you told me, when we met?” Stiles sucked air in, hard, and stood to face Lord Deaton. Derrik stood as well, uncertain if he would need to hold his mate back. “That war—that death—happens because those who can stop it don’t care enough to?”

“That some may shirk their responsibility and that it could end lives.” Derrik had no idea what conversation they were speaking on.

Stiles threw a hand out to Lord Deaton, “And you don’t think mentioning to your ally that your Queen has another there that should be under protection?”

“I try to only tell my allies what they need to know.” Lord Deaton responded. “I did not realize Prince Scot would still be in the castle at the time I spoke to Queen Lydia. It was erroneous on my part.”

“You think?” Stiles spat. “And what happens when two allies go to war with each other? Do you decide who gets to know what? Do you get off on the power trip?”

Derrik wasn’t angry at Lord Deaton—at least no more so than usual—but the calm manner which he addressed Stiles would have infuriated the wolf as well. He wasn’t surprised when after Lord Deaton said, “My only goal is peace.” Stiles swung at him. He still grabbed the prince, removing him from the situation, but thought about allowing it to happen.

He walked them a few paces away. It wasn’t far enough away for his mother not to hear, but far enough that Lord Deaton wasn’t in his exact line of sight. “My questions are legitimate ones.” Stiles pointed out, cheeks red in rage.

“There are,” Derrik soothed. “I don’t like Lord Deaton, but his word is usually good. If he has reason to believe Prince Scot is safe, then he very may well be.”

“And if he isn’t?” Stiles challenged. Derrik wasn’t certain. He wanted to say that his mother would war against this Queen with the Stilinski lands, but she may not to get his uncle back. And he wouldn’t be able to blame her. Stiles could read the hesitation etched on Derrik. “It’s a question worth asking.”

“It is,” Queen Talia walked towards them. She had left Lord Deaton and Erica by themselves. “But there is one that I should be asking you as well. If my brother dies, and she still holds Prince Scot, would Stilinski troops rally with us? When she holds your brother captive, would you risk his life to prove an ally?”

Stiles opened his mouth, then closed it. His scent turned and he bit his lip. Derrik watched it all, wondering what he was thinking. Queen Talia smiled. “I do not want you to answer. I want to point out that it is hard to know what you would do in such a situation. I cannot answer you in good faith, just as you can’t me. It is a bridge that must be crossed if we reach it.”

“I just—you would be able to tell if Lord Peter was killed, yes?” Stiles asked.

Derrik’s mother was surprised at the question, eyes widening slightly. Derrik was also somewhat confused as to why Stiles was asking. It was well known that packs held bonds between the members, with closer bonds lasting longer distances. “Well, yes.”

“I don’t get that.” Derrik’s inside turned to ice. He couldn’t even imagine the suspense, how it would grip him. Stiles looked down at his hands. “I don’t even know if he’s okay. If he’s alive.”

“I’m sorry, Stiles.” For the first time, it seemed as if his mother truly didn’t know what to say.

\--

It was sunny when they rode into Martin. The castle was within the distance, and Queen Talia had sent out Lord Deaton to speak on treating with the new Queen of Martin. They had set up a makeshift camp in the wilderness, with two tents for the royals. Even though Stiles and Derrik were given a tent, to share with Erica, Stiles hadn’t come in since they had stopped. He paced outside the encampment.

Derrik had attempted to convince him to come in without much avail. When the sun hung high in the sky, he headed out to the woods to find lunch. The trees were similar here to Stilinski, but the air was much more humid. There was moss hanging off most of the wood, and it created a lush undergrowth. He could imagine a scarf of similar material, draped over an oak-colored dress. It had only been a month since he last set pencil to parchment, but he missed it dearly.

As he stalked through the wood, listening for a quiet, quick-fast beat of prey, another heartbeat filtered through. With it came the distinct smell of shifter. Derrik veered off his path to explore, certain that one of the new Queen’s shifters would or could not harm him.

He found a young girl, wearing leather jerkin pants and a shirt. Her hair was braided back from her face, and her skin was well tanned. She had big, dark eyes. The girl lifted her nose to the air to scent him, and then scrunched it.

She spoke, in a language that Derrik had never heard before, that sounded oddly of the wolf tongue. It was close enough that he was certain she was remarking about him being a wolf, but not close enough for him to hope to respond. “Uh,” Derrik started, hoping that this girl wasn’t third generation or more Cottleg shifter. “Do you speak the man’s tongue?”

“I do,” the girl replied. “What pack are you from? You don’t smell like any of the Sovereigns here. And you’re a wolf.”

“My Alpha—Sovereign—isn’t one of the ones you came with. I don’t think. Who’s yours?”

“Sovereign Parrish. Though they say we’ve got to call him King Parrish now, cause he took the big brick tent.” She gestured towards the castle. “So you have a Sovereign? They didn’t kick you out even though you’re a wolf?”

“No,” Derrik said, startled. Who would kick someone out for being a wolf? “Are you not a wolf?”

The girl shrugged. “I don’t know what I am yet. My mommy’s a jaguar, and my daddy’s a hellhound like Sovereign Parrish. Maybe I’ll be one of those. I hope not a wolf though.”

“Why not a wolf?”

“Because wolves are mean,” She drug out the last word. “They kicked my mommy out of her home, and apparently daddy’s daddy as well. And then Queen Lydia came and told us that we’d get to live here, and it’s my first time seeing trees besides Mount Zendar. It’s not like we can live there, so this is nice. Unlike wolves.”

“Mount Zendar?” It seemed like half the words the child said were made up. Derrik tried not to let her comment on wolves smart, as it was true—wolves were notorious for forcing shifters to the Cottleg desert.

“You know, where Vatrya lives.”

Derrik did not know where Vatrya lived. “What are you doing so far away from your pack?”

“Hunting. There’s just so much food here. Everyone’s been spreading out, finding game.” The girl took her eyes off him, scanning the trees around them.

“Have you found anything good?”

“No, there’s some rabbits, but I really don’t like the taste of them.” She pulled a disgusted face. “Wife Tyari says it’s good for soup, but it’s too wet for me. I want to find one of the deer mommy told me about.”

“I haven’t found any deer here, either.” Derrik admitted. “And wife Tyari is right, rabbit is good for soup. Can you point me in the direction of where you smelled them?”

She pointed north, away from the castle. The underbrush became denser the further they got away from the grounds, so no wonder the rabbits found refuge out here. “Thank you. And be careful with deer—they’ve been known to kick going down.”

Derrik sat off away from the child, not wanting to meet any other shifters while he was so far from his group. It was fortunate it was only a little girl who he had met. Based on how the adults viewed wolves, he might not have been so lucky with an older shifter. As he strode away, she called out to him. “Wolf!” Derrik turned back to her. The end of her braid sat in her hand, and she tugged on it. “You don’t seem so bad.”

He smiled at the compliment. “Neither do you.”

His mind was half-gone while he hunted down the rabbits. The scent rode over the area, speaking of at least a few burrows and healthy, mating rabbits. The score could be plentiful if Derrik chose to bring back more than one. Instead of thinking of how hearty the stew could be, he thought on the girl. He couldn’t hear her anymore, could barely smell the presence of another shifter out in the woods, but she did not leave his mind. How shifters saw wolves was the opposite side of the coin where wolves saw shifters. He wondered when, if ever, they had lived together and what had gone so wrong to force one group off the land.

Derrik thought on Malia, and how she was technically a shifter. Most of the wolves of Hale disliked her, which is why the two of them got on. She fared well at Moonpearl. They only concerned themselves with those that had the gumption to survive, whatever form the person took. The nobles of court were a different matter, the ones who ruled most of the Hale lands.

If that girl was raised by a wolf in the lands and came out to be like her mother or father, there would be no question of her being exiled. But for the first time, Derrik wondered why. What made them so bad as to not be allowed to live peacefully? Surely, his mother could give them a parcel of land in which to live? If she couldn’t manage to force the groups together, one shouldn’t have been forced out.

He was still thinking on the issue, thinking of solutions, when he arrived back at the campsite. Derrik almost missed the smell of tension, the omegas nervous glances, his mother snapping at Lord Deaton. He didn’t miss Stiles standing at the foot of their tent, eyes wide.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, rabbit hanging loosely from his claws. Stiles watched Queen Talia, watched as she snarled at Lord Deaton. Derrik’s fear mounted. “Is Prince Scot alright?”

Stiles turned to look at him. “Erica left.” He said. “She just started running towards the castle. By the time your queen mother realized…by the time we knew what was happening, she was gone.”

Erica had gone in alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's my Derek tidbit, for his very last chapter: I almost always make him way too sweet, and also give him a lot of tough choices/bad times. He will n e v e r be allowed to just enjoy what he has
> 
> 6/7


	23. Allison

She hadn’t wanted to say that it was an improvement to be woken by a clawed hand covering her mouth, a rapid hiss to be quiet, but, well, Allison had been bored the last two or so weeks. Cecily was good to her word in attempting to entertain the princess, but became much more timid after Allison’s first outburst.

The days dragged on, and she heard nothing. No guard knocked at her door, her king grandfather did not come to exact his pound of flesh, and Cecily ran out of stories to tell. Or stories she would tell. Unlike Essa, she was tight-lipped on who she was and where she came from. Even using her new authoritarian approach, Allison could not crack the girl.

Unless she wanted to make good on her threats.

The dark thoughts of anger had been settling in the back of her mind since the door had swung locked, but they began to trail towards the forefront the longer she stared at her walls. The longer Cecily refused to bring her a stitching material, or painting equipment, or even just a damn book. When Allison demanded to know what could be so dangerous about a book, and Cecily had stammered out that it was her orders, Allison had slapped her. The sound and sting of it was so satisfactory that she almost did it again.

Cecily looked at her like she had no idea who Allison was. Truth be told, Allison didn’t either. She felt like she had slowly been becoming a monster—willing to let her mother suffer, willing to let Essa take the blame, all things to ease her treatment. This was just another way, her mind offered her. A way to scratch at the boredom. Cecily had left then, tears in her eyes, and did not return for hours. Allison was left pacing her room, undoing and redoing the one stitching loop she had.

The hours dragged on, and she began to feel guilty. It wasn’t Cecily’s fault Allison was in here. But she was working with her king grandfather to keep the princess caged like a bird. The thoughts danced around each other in her head, thoroughly giving Allison a headache. She went down for a nap to relieve it and woke up with Cecily there. With no book.

So, the days turned, and the nights came. Allison took to sleeping more, as it was the only respite offered to her. She knew that Cecily was instructed not to keep telling her new stories, in the hopes that Allison would offer up her own. The princess had said nothing of the sort by the time the shifter stole into her room.

Allison woke up to the weight of her pressing down. The only thing her eyes could take in was the glowing, reptilian eyes on top of her. She felt her body freeze up as the shifter leaned down and whispered, “Do not try to call for help.”

They stayed suspended like that until Allison realized that the shifter was waiting for an answer. Was it true that they could always hear when you lie? Prince Scot wouldn’t be able to hear her this far away, so she had no one to call to. When Allison was certain she wasn’t going to lie, she nodded. The shifter released her and was off the bed in one fluid movement.

“Who are you?” Allison worked up the nerve to ask.

“My name is T’ara. I was sent up here to watch over you.” The shifter seemed distracted. A scowl was on her face as she stared out the window. She must have come in through it, but how Allison did not hear was beyond herself.

Allison shifted carefully into a seating position. The second the blankets made sound, the shifter—T’ara—snapped her eyes back to the princess. “Who sent you?”

“Your father.” The answer confused as it calmed. “My Queen.”

“Queen Talia is here?”

That earned Allison a reaction. The snarl that tore through the room had her flinching, hands up placating. “The Queen of the Wolves is no queen of mine.”

Of course. Allison knew that the Hale lands were stringent about who lived there and no shifter that didn’t howl at the moon made the cut. Just looking into T’ara eyes should have told her all that she needed to know about that. It was most likely a sensitive subject, to be the home that the shifter was kicked out of.

“Forgive me.” The princess said. “Who is your Queen then?”

T’ara looked to the window, mouth pressed hard. It was as if she was listening in on two conversations. Was someone below her window, or could shifters truly hear that far? Could Prince Scot hear her? “My Queen is Lydia, of House Martin.”

Allison sucked in a breath, eyes wide. “I thought…I thought Lady Lydia was dead.”

“Queen Lydia,” T’ara reprimanded her. “For before the night is out, your grandfather will be dead. And any that stand with him.”

She attempted to work up a feeling of grief for her king grandfather, but all Allison could muster was fear. Fear for herself and Prince Scot. This shifter did not seem like the type to lie. “But you said, you said my prin—lord father sent you?”

“Yes. He has proved to be a fair and honest man to the Queen. You have nothing to worry about.”

That did not make her worry less. She wondered if Lord Christopher spoke on her betrothed. If any of Lady Lydia’s men knew that there was a wolf here. Her thoughts shifted to Lord Peter and wondered if any of them knew there were two wolves present. Two noble wolves and only one that should be trusted. “Please, my intended. His name is Prince Scot, of the Stilinski kingdom. He’s here, he’s a wolf, I know he won’t try to hurt anyone, but he will protect himself. Can’t you tell someone, so they don’t harm him?”

T’ara looked at her, eyes going colder after she mentioned Prince Scot’s name. “He will have a chance to back down. If he does not take it, that is no fault of my own.”

“But if he thinks that I might be in danger…” Allison trailed off. Prince Scot would surely fight to protect her. But then why hadn’t he come when her king grandfather placed her here? Did he tell Prince Scot that she would be harmed if he did not comply? Was there something preventing him from coming to her—is there anything that could prevent a wolf from going where it pleases?

“If he is as noble as you say, they’ll do their best to restrain him. No one wants a war.” It was a weak comfort, but T’ara looked uncomfortable to give it. Or as uncomfortable as Allison could tell, in the dim light. She mainly could make out her mouth, where the moonlight cast through the window, and her silhouette.

“Could we turn on a light?” Allison asked.

“And wake the girl in the next room?” She had forgotten that Cecily had taken residence in her handmaiden quarters. A small window between the rooms would alert her if Allison got up, if she deigned to turn on the lights.

“Okay,” She agreed with the shifter. There was no sense in fighting for something you don’t want too bad with a person bigger and stronger than you in every sense besides the height.

They sat in silence, with T’ara facing toward the window. Allison watched her, for lack of anything better to do. She didn’t look like a Hale-born shifter. She had the look of the Republic on her. Perhaps that was where Lady Lydia had been all these years. There weren’t many redheads in the cities over there, but enough apparently for the last Martin to give the slip to her king grandfather’s men.

“Is my lord father with you?” Allison asked. She moved to sit up, cautious that her actions may be taken as a threat.

“He is.”

“Will I be able to see him?” She could feel her heart start to race. “Is he safe?” T’ara had not said whether her lord father had brought them here willingly or not.

“Before dawn.” T’ara said. “You will be able to see him before the dawn.”

Allison strained her eyes to watch the shifter. She kept her claws out but held her hands inwards. T’ara spared her few glances as she looked to the window. Behind Allison’s eyes began to pound. It was not so different from what she was feeling from boredom these last several days.

She closed them, pressing her fingers in to make spots appear in the darkness. Allison wondered how she looked to T’ara. Probably ridiculous. Most certainly not the princess that her king grandfather had meticulously cultivated. Though she wasn’t to be a princess anymore. The thought shook her.

The wood of her table creaked and Allison cracked an eye open. T’ara had moved away from her. She looked back at Allison, and said, “Your father will be with you shortly. Stay here.” Then she climbed to the window and jumped—and only sheer will kept Allison from screaming. Allison stayed in her bed, debating whether the shifter meant for her to stay exactly where she was, or just within the room. Would she hear if Allison were to creep out of her sheets? If she looked below, would T’ara be waiting?

Allison hesitated long enough that she was still sitting in bed when her door opened. A torch illuminated her prince father’s features, relief stark in his outline. She felt like a child again, so grateful to see a familiar, protective face. “Father,” Allison cried out, etiquette lost in her moment of happiness. She flew from her bed.

His arm circled around her, holding her up. She clung to his doublet as his hand smoothed down her hair. Allison steadied herself before looking up to Prince—Lord Christopher’s face. “Is everyone alright?” He asked her.

“I don’t…I don’t know.” Allison said. “King Gerard put all of us in our rooms. A week? Or two? I haven’t seen anyone besides the handmaiden he gave me.”

“What about Essa?” Allison shrugged, knowing her worry was plain on her face. Her stomach roiled. Lord Christopher sighed, putting his hand on her shoulder. “You are safe here. I am going to—going to go check on your mother.” He patted her arm once.

“Lord Christopher,” Allison called out, her lord father stopping at the end of the corridor. “Prince Scot is still here. Could you check on him as well?”

\--

The next day dawn came slow. Allison stayed awake and watched the grey sky turn to pink and then blue. Cecily came out of her room and startled to see Allison already aware. “My princess,” She started. It reminded Allison that this handmaiden didn’t know the shift of power from the night before.

Allison smoothed her sheets down before sliding out of her bed. There was an plain blue robe hung upon one of her chairs. She put it on. “Cecily,” She cut off whatever the handmaiden was going to say. “I think today I will go to the kitchens.”

Cecily paused where she stood near the window. “I’m sorry, my princess, I don’t think they will allow you to leave.”

“I believe I can go down to get my food today. Since you seem to hate bringing me sweets, and Aspen probably misses feeding me.” She strode to the door, somewhat hoping that Cecily would follow her. The handmaiden did not disappoint. When Allison swung open her door, Cecily was saying, “The guards are not going to let you pass, and I’d hate for you to be man—”

The corridor was shown to be empty. It seemed to take the air out of her. “I am headed down to the kitchens. Feel free not to follow.” Allison trotted away from her—hopefully—soon-to-be ex-handmaid.

As she went down through the castle, she passed many a stranger. They were clearly shifters, outfitted in desert garb. Each lifted its nose to scent her and found something satisfactory. The shifters allowed her to pass along the stones and down to the kitchen. There were children in the foyer, running through the halls and out of the door. Two darted around her as she made her way to the Great Hall, one grabbing onto her robe to spin around. Laughter and shrieks bounced off the rock walls and Allison was charmed by the wildness in the young shifters.

There were more shifters in the kitchens than citizens of the land. An older woman stood with Aspen, watching her as she kneaded dough. As Allison watched, the shifter stopped Aspen and said something. Aspen gestured to the dough as she spoke and looked around at the other shifters shadowing the kitchen maids. Her eyes landed on Allison.

“Oh, my princess.” She cried out, delighted in seeing her. Allison felt her heart kick up and looked around at the army the new Queen brought. Aspen wiped the sticky flour onto her apron before hustling around the shifter and waddling over to her.

Allison held her hands out to the kitchen maid. Aspen took her hands and rubbed warmth into her fingers. “I’m not a princess now; be careful what you say.”

“Right you are, my dear,” Aspen did not argue with her. She cast her eyes around the room as well. “What do I owe the pleasure of you coming to visit me?”

“It’s the first time I’ve been out of my room in quite a while,” Allison admitted. “I was hoping I might steal a sweet and see how you’ve been faring.”

“Right well,” She smiled down at Allison. “This is my second siege that I’ve been alive for, and I’ve got to say, they’ve treated us a right bit fairer than your—oh, I’m sorry, dear. I know it must be hard.”

“It’s okay,” She responded. There was only a dull pain in accompaniment with great relief when she thought on her king grandfather.

Aspen sighed deeply, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. She took Allison by the arm, steering her to the older shifter who had been watching them. “Anyway, we’re making some tarts right now. It’ll be a few minutes left in the oven, so I can introduce you.”

The shifter was stout, much like Aspen, and had a streak of flour along her jerkin. She kept her face smooth while Allison approached, but she did not appear stern. “This is Tyari.” Aspen introduced her. “She kept the shifters alive out in the desert. We’ve been swapping recipes, and it is wonderful what she can do with some millet and water.”

Allison dipped her head. She didn’t know where the head of the kitchen fell in pack hierarchy, or how they greeted those above and beneath them. Tyari followed suit. “This is the Lady Allison.”

“Queen Lydia has spoken highly of you.” Tyari’s voice was quiet. Her mouth quirked up and her eyes went soft.

“We were good friends when we were younger.” Allison responded, her hand going up to the tiny scar on her collarbone. “Much, much younger.”

“She is coming to the kitchen soon. If you’d like to wait.” Tyari was well-spoken in the man’s tongue, but the g’s and r’s dragged out like she would prefer to growl. “Queen Lydia would like to see you.”

“Did she tell you that?” Allison asked. Aspen toddled over to the rising dough, shoving it back to the wood with her knuckles. “How close are you to the Queen?” The word felt foreign on her tongue. How long had it been for a ruling of a Queen?

“I was given as a gift, on the day of her Alpha-mating.” The words were nonsense to Allison. But she assumed it meant that they were close.

A younger maid, followed by two shifters, walked over to Aspen. One of the shifters was an older man, being helped along by the younger shifter woman. The maid dipped into curtsey when she saw Allison, but thankfully, refrained from calling her princess. “The tarts have been pulled from the oven, my lady. They are cooling right now.”

“Wonderful!” Aspen smiled. “Save two for me, will you? One for our lovely Lady Allison, and one for the Queen. I hear she’s coming to pay us a visit. The rest are for the children running around. Tyari tells me that most of them have never tasted something as sweet as a tart.”

“Of course. Would you like me to plate them?” The kitchen maid cringed. Probably at the idea of giving fine china to running, energetic children.

“Just wrap them in paper. Get some of the other maids to help hand them out.” She curtsied again. Before she could scamper off, Aspen spoke again. “Remember, Alice, they are just children. Same as the ones in the city. Treat them so.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

Allison watched as the two shifters nodded to Tyari, same as she did, and then follow after the haggard kitchen maid. Aspen leaned over to her. “Tyari tells me that Queen Lydia is going to do her best to integrate the shifters with the rest of the kingdom. I think a little food would go a long way in helping with that.”

There were few wolves in the Martin lands, most along the edge of the Hale border. Of the three kingdoms, it was the laxest regarding shifters. Allison had even met a few within the marketplace. She watched the steady way that Aspen rolled and pulled at the dough. “You are right in that.” She murmured.

Aspen’s hands paused long enough to snap Allison out of her stupor. She looked up to the kitchen maid’s face. She was misty eyed, looking beyond Allison. “Queen Lydia…” She breathed.

Allison looked over to where Aspen was staring. Her old friend, now Queen Lydia, stood in the doorway. Her hair was braided away from her face, in the fashion that seemed common among the shifters. There was a small gold circlet upon her head, and she wore a loose, pink dress. It was in the style of the Republic, with no form added to the dress. The robe Allison wore was just as loose fitting.

She was looking at Allison, mouth slightly parted. After they made eye contact, Queen Lydia shrugged off the wonder. She strode over to the table. Aspen broke into a curtsey that Allison was quick to follow. Tyari bowed her head instead.

Aspen wiped her cheeks, smearing flour along her cheeks. “My dear, you’ve grown up to be quite lovely.” Queen Lydia’s cheeks pinked. “I have Alice bringing you and Lady Allison a tart if you still favor them.”

“I remember how delicious your sweets were, Aspen.” The Queen smiled, lost in memory. “I would love one. Though I don’t think I can stay long. I have a meeting with Sovereign Deucalion today.”

“He will ask for his favor.” Tyari said ominously. Allison hadn’t the faintest clue what she meant by those words, but it seemed that Queen Lydia did. She regarded the shifter with sharp eyes, still for a moment before nodding.

“Thank you,” She responded. Her attention seemed to swing back to the whole of the table. “If you could have her wrap it up for me, I will take it on my way.”

“Of course, my Queen.” Aspen dipped her head low. She learned quick from Tyari.

Allison hadn’t said anything since Queen Lydia came over. She was uncertain on what to say. This woman, standing confident in front of her, was a stranger with a friend’s face. Before she could determine what would be the safest way to speak to her old friend, Queen Lydia turned to her.

“It is good to see you. I hadn’t expected you to be here, though perhaps I should. You were fond of Aspen growing up.” A small smile was on her lips. Allison returned it. “I was going to ask if tomorrow you would like to have lunch together? I would like to catch up, but there is so much to do.”

“Of course,” Allison responded. She wouldn’t refuse an offer from the Queen. “Would it be alright if I were to check on my intended? I don’t know if he was removed from his room—his name is Prince Scot, of the Stilinski kingdom. He’s a wolf. I just want to make sure he’s alright.”

“I haven’t had anyone removed from their rooms.” Queen Lydia said. “Though wolves haven’t been let out either. My Sovereign is rather cautious over me.” A light sneer formed on her face.

“As he should be,” Allison thought of Lord Peter. “For there are those here who could seek to do you harm.”

“Such as?”

She bit her lip. If Lord Peter didn’t harm one of the shifters, and she spoke badly about him, then he could be put to death. It could cause war. But if he was left in his room, to his own devices, he could find a way to hurt the Queen. Or Allison herself.

“There is a lord here, who was treating with my kin—lord grandfather. He did not strike me as trustworthy then. He has done nothing to warrant his death, but perhaps enough to keep a close watch. His name is Lord Peter, of the Hale kingdom.”

Queen Lydia stared off from Allison, eyes somewhere else. They went hard for a moment, before she nodded. “I’ll have him moved to the dungeons for now. It will keep him in a more manageable place. Thank you for your concern, Lady Allison.”

“Thank you, my Queen.” She aborted a curtsey half-way through, instead bowing her head. The Queen returned the gesture. Alice brought them the tarts, a large quantity stowed in a wicker basket, and handed two off to them. Aspen snagged one more, breaking it in half and offering some to Tyari.

The younger kitchen maid led three other Martin citizens out with wicker baskets filled with tarts. When Allison unwrapped hers, she noticed that it was raspberry. Queen Lydia held hers in her hand, staring down at it. “Thank you.” She said. “I will see you all soon.”

As soon as the queen had left, Allison shoved half the tart into her mouth. It was undignified, but she no longer had the threat of regency looming over her. “I’m going to see Prince Scot.”

Aspen bid her farewell and Allison was off. She knew where his quarters were, even though she had never been there with him. It would be highly improper for a princess to be left alone with a prince in his personal chambers. And while she was still a lady, some leeway most likely could be made. There was a shifter sitting outside of Prince Scot’s door, a lanky young man. He looked up when she came through the corridor.

“I’m here to see the prince?” He hadn’t made a move to get up from the ground. Allison waited, nervous that she may turn to enter, and the shifter be at her back. He waved her through.

Prince Scot was sitting at a table with T’ara. To see the woman again brought Allison up short. When she stepped in, Prince Scot rose to see her, but she looked to T’ara. “My prince,” She said, dipping into a curtsey. The shifter watched her.

“Princes—Lady Allison.” Prince Scot smiled like the sun. “It’s good to see you.”

“As you, Prince Scot.” Her heartbeat was in her ears. T’ara scoffed, no doubt smelling their attraction to each other. “How have…how have you been?”

“Okay. The last few weeks have been difficult. But T’ara and the others have treated me kindly.”

“It’s good to know she has been kind to you.” Allison could be fairly certain that T’ara wouldn’t kill her when she had active plans to see the Queen later. “She protected me last night as well.”

T’ara shifted to cross her arms. “I have elsewhere to be. I just came to ensure your prince knew not to try to attack us.”

“How kind.” Allison smiled. T’ara bared her teeth at her, but it was less frightening then Lord Peter. And there weren’t even fangs. Prince Scot watched as she teased the shifter in front of her. When T’ara had swung the door shut behind her, she turned to her intended. “She’s a lot less frightening in the day.”

Prince Scot laughed, a loose, free and almost maniac sound. Allison joined in. It shook her tension out of her body. A thought crossed her mind, now that she was less worried about being killed.

“Prince Scot…do you still want to marry me? Even though I’m not a princess?”

His laughter subsided into chuckles, and her looked her right in the eye. “I would want to marry you, even if you were a book keep’s daughter or farmer’s child.”

\--

The next day dawned with Allison having no handmaid. She had asked a few stable boys to look for Essa but had sent Cecily on her way. Queen Lydia had offered them to have lunch in her room, or as Allison was currently thinking of it, Queen Lydia’s old room.

She got dressed herself, difficult for the current fashion of court. Allison was aware that her back lacing was crooked. She had forgone two of her petticoats, leaving her skirts somewhat rumpled.

A shifter brought her some fruit for the morning before she was able to do her hair. Allison put a simple bun in her hair, tying it with a ribbon. She added some pearl bobbies to her bun to give her a courtly look. Allison had about half and an hour before the lunch and decided to take a trip down to the dungeons.

She took the entrance from the kitchens, greeting Aspen and Tyari on her way to the secret passage. All the shifters would know where she had gone, when word was given by those standing guard down below, but perhaps word would be forgotten to be given to her lord father.

It wasn’t as if he could stop her now, anyhow. The dungeon had torches lit along the walls, far enough away from the hidden staircase that Allison had to drag her hand across the wall to keep from slipping down the steep steps. There wasn’t a shifter in sight. Allison hadn’t expected one—the stairs were well away from any cell. There wasn’t need for a guard here.

She did pass a few as she wandered further into the dungeons. Most still wore their leather jerkins, the weather down below humid enough to warrant it. There were also royal guard down here, dressed in all their finery. They looked quite ridiculous when paired up against the shifters.

Allison would ask one of them which cell kept the Lord Peter, but she had doubts they knew the human tongue. Many of them bore scars from how long they lived in the sands. Some couldn’t have been more than sixteen years, probably born and raised in the desert. Sire Hewitt came into view and she breathed a sigh of relief. His eyes tracked her underneath his helmet. What was the purpose of a helmet in a dungeon?

“Sire Hewitt,” She greeted, dipping into curtesy.

He bowed, low enough to be proper, but not so low as to crumple his heavy metal armor. “Lady Allison,” he said. “What can I assist you with?”

“Do you know where they are keeping Lord Peter?” She asked. Sire Hewitt hesitated. “I only wish to speak to him. I don’t even need to go inside the bars.”

“I can take you to him.”

They went somewhat further into the cells. Many were empty. The courts in Martin were quick, doling out punishment for each case. Very few crimes had the punishment of the dungeon—most were losing a hand or a head, banishment or fine.

Sire Hewitt paused at a cell, placing his torch upon a holder next to it. Inside the bars was the lord Allison was seeking. He was wearing his night garb, shoeless feet pale where the grime did not stick. Allison nodded to the guard next to her, as good as dismissing him. He would not go far.

Lord Peter regarded her for a moment. His head rested on the wall behind him, giving him the appearance that he was looking down on her even as sat beneath her. “Lady Allison.” He said, very little inflection in his voice. “What do I owe the pleasure of this visit to my humble quarters?”

Allison scoffed. His sarcasm tried her. “I came to find what I was looking for since your horse trotted up to the castle. Answers.”

“You’ll have to be more specific as to what you want to know.” His teeth were startingly white. He barred them while he spoke, and it caused Allison’s heart to trip. Lord Peter smiled like he knew it.

“You don’t frighten me anymore.” She said, hoping that her heart read it as truth. He couldn’t frighten her with a guard to protect her, no king grandfather to harm her, with a dungeon door between them. “Why did you come here?”

“I do what my Alpha asks of me.” He responded. As if it was as simple as that. “She wished me to come here, buy time or a truce while she tried her hand at negotiations with Stilinski.”

“The marriage between Prince Stiles and one of the Hale children.” Allison confirmed.

“How did you know that?” Lord Peter’s eyes glimmered in the torchlight. She could see the way he peered at her.

Allison flipped an errant piece of hair out of her face. “You are not the only one who has information coming from outside the halls of Martin, Lord Peter.”

“I didn’t think I was. But I also didn’t think you would learn of that. Why didn’t you tell your grandfather about the possibility that I could be playing him—when it is so clear your goal is to keep me from harming those around you?”

“I’m the one asking questions.” Allison snapped. “Why did you want to harm the ones around me?”

Lord Peter tilted his head even further back, closing his eyes. It appeared he did not plan to speak until she had answered him. “My goal was to protect those close to me, ensure that whatever you and my lord grandfather spoke on would not come down on me—or Prince Scot, or my lord father—unfavorably. I couldn’t do that if I didn’t know what was going to happen. You have no idea how many times I would learn of something my ki—lord grandfather had done that changed my life, after he did it.”

The lord was quiet for a moment, obviously digesting what she said. Listening to more than her words, sensing more than what she had said. “I did not know where your allegiances lay. I still don’t, mostly, but it is becoming clearer. I couldn’t have you sniffing around me and finding something your grandfather might use as an agreeable reason to toss me here,” Lord Peter gestured to the dungeon. “Or kill me. I wanted you to back off. Believe me or not, I just wanted to be able to get back home—and not hear about how others are dying in my sister’s territories.”

“You will be able to go back home.” Allison responded. For the first time, she felt as if she could see the lord before her. Like a spoon, flipped up in the reflection. A willingness to do what they could to protect those they cared about. “But you needn’t be so—so—crass about the way that you treated me.” Those terrifying moments out in the rain danced in her mind.

He laughed at that, a short bark of a sound that conveyed more scorn that words could. “I quite do think I had to. I had to show you that I could be just as much monster as I needed to be—after all, Lady Allison, I was roomed close enough to your quarters to hear how you treated poor Cecily? Was that her name?” He waved a hand. Allison wondered if he heard it when she slapped the handmaiden. “Please don’t pretend that you would have responded to a lighter warning. You’ve got too many teeth for that.”

A strange pride bloomed in her. To be seen as a threat. “I do.”

\--

Sire Hewitt was adamant in escorting her back to the true opening of the dungeon, wanting to shield her from an unsavory character she may pass in the closer cells. He bid her farewell at the doors, his duty to remain in the barracks preventing him from following her up to her old quarters.

She wondered if she’d meet Queen Lydia’s husband today. He was said be quite apt at warring, and very handsome. The Queen had seemed off-put by him yesterday, by his coddling, but it didn’t appear that they outright hated each other. Allison had seen the way her lady mother sometimes spoke upon her lord father.

As she climbed the stairs, someone pulled themselves through the window before her. Allison may have started a week or two before, but it was commonplace for the shifters to disregard the proper way to interact with buildings. She had spied their sea of tents, propped outside the castle along the walk and gardens, and could understand why. She stepped to the side to allow the shifter space to straighten herself out.

When the woman pulled herself forward, then Allison was concerned. This was no shifter, equal born of the Cottleg. She knew the face, somewhat thinner in age. “Lady—” A hand was on her mouth before she could say the wolf’s name.

“Lady Allison,” She greeted softly. “I’d prefer if you not name me before we get to your rooms. After all, isn’t that where the Queen is waiting?”

She let go of Allison’s mouth and took hold of her arm. Lady Erica—the future Lady of Moonpearl, Lord Peter’s daughter—moved them up a few steps before looking back at Allison. “You smell of him.”

“I went to see Lord Peter.” Her heart squeezed painfully. She didn’t like the man, and she wasn’t sure what his punishment should be for his treatment, but Lady Erica truly cared for him. It was clear on her face.

A bitter expression overtook the softness in her eyes. Her shoulders squared as she breathed out. “Trying to guess what you’ll be given in exchange for him?”

“No,” Allison said.

“Good. You’ll get nothing from me for him.” They continued up the stairs, the words bouncing inside Allison’ head.

When they reached the hallway that held her quarters, there was no shifter waiting outside. There was most likely one or two inside with the Queen, those that Allison could not detect. Lady Erica most certainly could, cocking her head to get a better read. Whatever she discerned did not seem to bother her, and no one came rushing out to meet them—so her presence didn’t raise alarms either.

Before Allison could explain that they were not expecting company with her, Lady Erica pushed open the door. Queen Lydia stood at the window, T’ara hovering nearby her. They turned at the sound of the wood against stone. T’ara had a moment of regarding Allison with cool impassivity before her face shifted. A snarl rose through her throat.

Lady Erica met it with one of equal ferocity. There were five pinpricks of pressure against Allison’s collarbone. One was directly above the cut Queen Lydia had given her all those years ago.

“Enough!” Queen Lydia said, as the sound turned dry. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Tell her who I am.” Lady Erica pushed Allison with her other hand, urging her. She got the distinct impression—like all those years ago—that the noble woman threatening her life would not complete her threat.

Her voice did not shake when she spoke. “This is Lady Erica Hale, of Moonpearl. She is the firstborn daughter and rightful heir to Lord Peter Hale.”

The answer turned Queen Lydia’s eyes flat. Her mouth pulled down, so slight that it could be missed by someone not looking close enough. “So, you’ve come to treat.” She guessed. “I can tell you that threatening one of my guests is not a good approach to fast agreements.”

“I’ve not come to treat.” Lady Erica said. “I won’t have you use my lord father against my kingdom. You want peace—an alliance—with the Hale lands? Do it with the Queen Talia. But leave my father out of it.”

“Your father will be returned unharmed to your family.” Queen Lydia soothed. Her eyes looked behind Lady Erica, a dart so quick that Allison was sure she imagined it. The only indication that whatever she was waiting for was true came from the Lady wolf behind her. Her other hand grew claws as well, catching on the sleeve of Allison’s dress. “He was not part of the agreement to treat. I would give him back as a show of good faith.”

“Then why is he in a cell? Why would you not give him back the second our messenger came to you?” Allison could not see what Lady Erica looked like. T’ara watched her with hawk-eyes, tense and following the motion of her mouth.

“We were informed he could be—dangerous.” The Queen looked at Allison then. Worry etched itself in the thin lines next to her eyes. “We wanted to make sure that he was safely delivered. For him and for ourselves,” She explained.

Allison could not tell if Lady Erica understood that the warning came from her own mouth. She knew her warning was well founded, and she would wager Lady Erica did as well. Before Lady Erica could respond, in word or by releasing Allison, a sound echoed throughout the hallway.

A roar.

Queen Lydia made to move toward them, holding out her arm and yelling, “Wait!” Allison saw T’ara hold her back. Lady Erica whirled her to face the hallway, claws puncturing her skin.

Fast approaching the two women was a creature wreathed in flame. Its very eyes were sockets of fire and it reached out to them. The heat licked along her front and Allison braced herself for the burn. While it never came, a burst of white pain as nails sunk deep and dragged out of her skin caused her to faint nevertheless. She had braced for the wrong sensation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is Allison's last POV chapter!!
> 
> next update: 6/11


	24. Stiles

Stiles had, over the last few months, become so accustomed to the wolves he travelled with that he knew the moment Erica passed. Lord Deaton had made way to the castle—strapping a horse up the moments after Derrik returned with a rabbit in his hands.

Derrik dropped the rabbit, went to his mother, and argued that he should follow after her. Stiles watched them as, the first time ever, Derrik snarled and roared at his mother. The Queen wrestled him down to the ground. Her claws were out. Her eyes shone like blood as she held tight to Derrik’s throat.

Stiles must have been in shock, as the only thing that he thought was why Queen Talia hadn’t done that with Erica. He looked up to see how far Lord Deaton had gotten, to see that he was out of eyesight.

He knew it would not be fast enough.

Derrik struggled against his mother, there in the mud. The rabbit lay dead next to them. Stiles could only see the feet, the lucky feet of the rabbit. The mother and son stilled at the same time, bodies becoming a strange sculpture that could not help but crumble. The wail that was pulled from Derrik shoved Stiles out of his own head.

Queen Talia did not try to restrain him then, instead folding herself onto him. Stiles moved closer. Another cry came from Derrik, eyes gone and tears pooling at the edges. He dropped in the mud next to them. He pushed his hands into Derrik’s hair, as Queen Talia pushed her face into his neck.

Stiles felt something hollow inside of himself. His vision went blurry, but he kept his hands in his love’s hair. “Shhh,” He tried to comfort. He tried to quiet. His voice came out wet and his breath hitched.

The mud was cool and wet. Stiles laid his whole front on it, pressing his face into Derrik’s. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a grieved scenting, so close to the Queen of Hale that he could smell the lavender in her hair. He could tell she was crying too.

Derrik’s hand came to grip his hair, hold him close. Stiles felt a small, broken sound work out of his mouth into the huddle of bodies. His chest cracked open a little farther.

\--

Lord Deaton did not return before they managed to pull apart. Queen Talia went first, pulling away from the other two and sitting in the mud for a moment. She was quiet next to them before she departed. Derrik folded in on himself, and Stiles mimicked the gesture. They lay in the mud, faces touching, until the sky began to darken.

Derrik sat up and pulled Stiles up. He carefully wiped Stiles’ face, eyes red-rimmed. Stiles returned the gesture.

“We should get to the fire.” Derrik said.

“I’m not hungry.”

“My mother might know something know. About what happened.”

Stiles sighed. “Does that matter?” The only thing that seemed to matter was that she was gone. That she was not going to return. He still let Derrik move him. Let Derrik gather him into a standing position.

“What happens next matter.” Derrik’s mouth twisted. There was point there—no one had acted like Lord Peter was dead, and Lord Deaton most certainly would bring news on Prince Scot.

What happened next could be war.

“Okay,” Stiles whispered. He was vulnerable right now, shaken by the need to stay close to Derrik. “Thank you.” He took his betrothed’s hand.

Derrik kissed his knuckles thoughtlessly. “What for?”

“For allowing me to be with you, through this. Thank you.” It was an inadequate way to explain the depth of his emotions, but his scent would make up for what he could not say. Tears pricked at his eyes, burning something awful on the raw skin.

Derrik pushed their joint hands up to his face, wiping the tear away. “Thank you. For being here.”

Queen Talia was waiting at the fireside. There was an omega serving stew into bowls, one laying on the ground next to the Queen. She didn’t look up from the fire as the came closer. Stiles was struck by how much sadness aged her.

“Lord Deaton should be here shortly.” The Queen said. Her voice was lacking inflection, and she winced like she knew it. Stiles could see how she pulled herself back together, stitching up in front of their eyes. “He will be able to tell us more. Come, sit, eat.” She gestured to the logs next to the fire.

“We’ll wait with you.” Derrik offered up. When the omega handed them two bowls of steaming stew—made with the rabbit Derrik brought earlier—they placed them to the side as well. The omega moved away from them.

The fire crackled loudly between them all while they waited for Lord Deaton. Queen Talia kept looking at the fire, but her eyes had the shine of life in them again. After some time, Derrik tilted his head up. Lord Deaton must be close.

Stiles pointed his face in the same direction as Derrik, straining his eyes. He heard the stamping of hoofs before the man came into view. Lord Deaton sat upon the horse’s backside, looking as collected as ever. A low thrum of resentment pulsed through Stiles. The omega from before hurried over to collect the horse, murmuring something to Lord Deaton. Stiles could barely make out sounds, but it didn’t upset Derrik.

Lord Deaton walked over to the fire, settling down next to Queen Talia. He didn’t try to comfort her with a touch, and she didn’t seek it from him. Stiles watched him track how none of them had eaten. He stopped reaching for the bowl that sat next to him.

“What happened?” Queen Talia asked.

A sigh came from Lord Deaton. Stiles bit the inside of his cheek, attempting to ready himself for whatever came. “Lady Erica was using Lady Allison as a shield. She managed to get into the same room as Queen Lydia—to ask for her lord father’s safe return. The King saw an intruder and attacked.”

It would be something like that. The King was a shifter from the deserts and would not know noble from peasant, not with the way that Lady Erica presented herself. Queen Talia closed her eyes and breathed. Stiles held his own breath in what she would say. “And the others?”

Lord Deaton looked over at Stiles. “Prince Scot is alive and well. He’s being treated as a guest. Queen Lydia gave him permission to come here whenever he pleases.”

“Then why hasn’t he?” Stiles asked. A flash of anger was there and gone with a press of Derrik’s hand. Whatever Lord Deaton wasn’t saying, his prince was picking up on it.

“The Lady Allison was harmed during the… altercation. They have been attempting to heal her, but Prince Scot has elected to stay at the castle until she is well.” Lord Deaton said. Derrik tensed.

“You aren’t telling us something.” Stiles accused.

The lord looked him in the eye, lips pursed. It was the most expression Stiles had gotten from him since he had attempted to fight him. “I am. Because it isn’t mine to tell. But I can tell you Prince Scot is well and staying with Lady Allison for the time being.”

“And Peter?” Queen Talia asked. “Why didn’t you bring him back? Have they decided to change the terms of the agreement over—?” She choked her words off.

“There was an agreement in place for Uncle Peter?”

“I was going to tell you and Erica during lunch.” She said. Her mouth twisted. “I wasn’t attempting to hide it; it would have been less than two hours from when I received the news and when I shared it.”

“Okay.” Derrik gave in. Stiles bumped his knee against Derrik’s, support in the most tactile form. “Okay.” Derrik repeated, leg relaxed against Stiles.

“What is the agreement?” Stiles asked. Would she have to give up her lands? Offer someone to marry a shifter in Queen Lydia’s pack? Something to do with the laws regarding shifters in the Hale lands?

“One of the Sovereigns asked a boon of Queen Lydia. He wanted to speak with me and would bring Peter when he returned.” She looked at Stiles while she spoke. It was easy to piece together why this Alpha would ask something so directly tied to Queen Talia. Stiles nodded, unwilling to betray her trust to even his love. “Is there some additional requirements now?”

Lord Deaton shook his head. “No…Queen Lydia asked for nothing. I spoke with Lord Peter while there, however. He has challenged the King to a Borrak.”

Queen Talia stiffened. Derrik was as confused as Stiles and asked, “What is a Borrak?”

“A fight to the death.” Queen Talia said.

“I don’t think—can he do that with a King?” Stiles’ king father would never allow it, and he hadn’t heard it happen in the Hale lands either.

“Typically, no.” Lord Deaton responded. “However, the King comes from the Cottleg deserts and is adamant that that particular custom stays in place.”

“Forever?” Stiles was incredulous. “That’s a quick way to get killed, or to kill all your citizens.”

“You are not the only one who thinks that. However, the challenge has been accepted, so this one will stand. I know Queen Lydia hopes that it doesn’t occur after this.”

“So, Peter could die.” Queen Talia snarled.

“He was the one to issue the challenge.” Lord Deaton spoke softly.

She waved her hand, stopping it halfway in its arc. As if she was too tired to finish the dismissal. Her hand dropped. “When is it?”

“It will be in a week’s time.”

“The full moon.” Derrik said. Stiles wondered if that would give some advantage to Lord Peter, as Cottleg shifters rarely felt the pull of the moon.

Lord Deaton nodded. “The Sovereign still wants to speak with you.”

“When?” Queen Talia asked.

“Two days from now. He is willing to come here.”

“Okay.” She acted like a puppet with her strings cut, eyes going strangely blank again and straying to the fire. Stiles understood the emotion, echoed it inside himself.

\--

The next day, Erica’s tent hadn’t been taken down. Stiles thought it might be deconstructed over the night, the omegas doing it quietly. Pack her things away to carry them to Moonpearl. He didn’t think anyone had gone in since she had left.

He found comfort, when his mother passed, in a small brooch that she wore in her hair. Stiles would hold it, curling around it on the dais of Death. He crept closer to the tent without thinking. Perhaps he would find something small of hers, something unobtrusive he could look on and smile, think of her with it.

No one stopped him as he pushed the flaps aside and went in. It looked rather similar to his own, a bed of furs and a single trunk. They had neglected to take any single table wear, or thing that could burden their journey to Martin. The room was sparse, meant only to give the illusion of privacy should Erica have wanted it.

Stiles moved to the trunk. Erica rarely adorned herself in anything besides the dress she was required to wear, but she would pull her hair away from her face with a ribbon. Perhaps one was still here.

When he opened the chest, the dresses were stuffed in indiscriminately. Her handmaiden had elected not to travel with them, as she was an old wolf. Stiles thought Erica was happier for it, even in her anger. He shifted one of the dresses out of the way, expecting the ribbons to be at the bottom of the trunk. Instead, as the dress moved, there was a parchment tucked away.

He pulled the letter from its hideaway. A look at it told him it was from Princess Laura, and he was curious on what she had to say on Prince Conan. Erica didn’t have a chance to tell him before. Stiles skimmed the contents, realizing that the letter wasn’t about Prince Conan.

His heart must have been doing something funny, as Queen Talia appeared at the tent entrance.

“Stiles? What’s going on?” He couldn’t look at her. Stiles felt sick, a deep pit in his stomach. Princess Laura had told—she suggested that Erica…

The Queen pulled the letter from his hand, pulling his face to her neck. “It’s okay.” She whispered, running her hands along his arms. “Breathe for me.”

Stiles realized then that he wasn’t. A disconnected thought floated through his head, that maybe that was what changed his heartbeat. How long hadn’t he been breathing? Queen Talia reminded him once again and he sucked in air, a noisy inhale that refocused the world.

She made encouraging sounds, holding onto him for a moment more. It felt so much like a memory of his mother that he wanted to stay forever. Queen Talia indulged him. He was almost settled when she pulled away to look at the letter she had pried from his hands.

He opened his mouth to explain what it was, but the letter would say more than he ever could. Queen Talia read it quickly, with the efficiency of someone who spent most of their ruling reading and responding to correspondence. “Oh.” She sounded as if someone had punched her.

Stiles didn’t need to ask if she had read what he had.

Her eyes watered quickly, and she swiped at her face. Stiles reached over to place his hand on her wrist. Queen Talia made an aborted laughing noise. “To think…you have seen me cry more than Cora. How unseemly.” She pulled air in quick, through her teeth. It was a practice Stiles also sometimes used, when he needed not to cry at the moment.

“It has been a rough few days.” He said.

“A rough few months.” Queen Talia rebutted. Another tear slipped down her cheek.

She curled towards him, and Stiles welcomed it. Sitting in Erica’s tent, he held onto the Queen of the Hale lands, and let her cry. She was quiet, but her frame shook under his hands. He cupped her head with one hand, offering the only comfort he could give.

They stayed like that even when her shakes subsided. He knew that the omegas could tell they were in here, were probably reading scent signals not to interrupt. Stiles expected that he had set the Queen’s schedule way back. She pulled away from his embrace. “Thank you for that.”

“Of course.” Stiles responded. He hesitated on what he was going to say next, but it felt too important to leave unsaid. “Derrik has confessed to me that often he feels that his sadness can be seen as weakness. I told him it’s not. I know that it is not. Not from him and not from you. I don’t hold those emotions which make us people against others.”

Queen Talia regarded him for a moment, smiling when she found whatever she was looking for. Stiles wasn’t going to ask—there were detectors wolves could pick up on him that even through explanation he doubted he’d get. “You know who is coming to visit tomorrow.”

“Yes.” Stiles said. He didn’t say the answer as he knew there were others listening outside. The secret wouldn’t be exposed in such an easy manner by him.

“I think I’d like for you to meet him, as well.” She paused. “If you’re willing. You are the type of leader I hope guides the kingdoms to the future. Perhaps you could give some insight for us.”

“You expect there to be some conflict?” Stiles asked.

“There might be. There will be questions, maybe accusations. He might ask for what he feels is owed.” His eyes travelled up to where her silver crown sat on her head. Based on the few actions he had seen on the Sovereign King, Stiles doubted the Hale lands would profit from a Cottleg alpha.

“If you wish me to be there, then I will be, Queen Talia.”

She brushed her hand across his cheek, a small scent mark. “Call me Talia, please.”

\--

Stiles meets the Queen for lunch at precisely noon. He wore his cleanest doublet, a deep red that signaled his house and lands. An omega came to his tent when it was time to meet the Sovereign of Cottleg.

Derrik knew that Stiles was meeting with his mother and the other Alpha. He wasn’t sure on how to tell his betrothed without side-stepping the truth. Stiles wasn’t the type to lie, but it was not his secret to tell. Instead, Derrik made it easy on him. He had kissed his temple and said that it was fine. He would be spending the day in his wolf skin anyway. It would be good for him.

The omega leads him away from his tent, and though she does not look at him, he knows she can tell he is nervous. His fear-sweat has probably already soaked through his doublet.

It was inside of Queen Talia’s tents. Stiles wondered if it was for the illusion of privacy, or if it was some custom that shifters kept. The omega announced him before he stepped in.

Stiles found it odd, until he spotted the Cottleg alpha. The older man had horrid scars across his face. His eyes were milky white, and did not track him when he came in.

He could have worn a much more comfortable jacket to the affair.

Stiles bowed; court rules engrained in him. “Thank you for inviting me to lunch, Queen Talia. Alpha Deucalion.” He greeted the Sovereign before him. It was good manners to know everyone you would be supping with—though Stiles wouldn’t have known how to greet him had it not been for Queen Talia’s coaching the day before.

“The Stilinski prince,” Alpha Deucalion said. It wasn’t a question. “Thank you for joining us.”

Stiles wondered if this was a barb at him. Queen Talia did not act like it. She smiled, a smile for Stiles. Any smile would be for Stiles, as the other attendee could not see them. “The omegas are finishing up smoking trout for us. One of them was sent into the city to fetch lemons. The food will be by shortly.”

She gestured for Stiles to sit. There was wine at the table—no juice for Stiles to sip at. His glass was as full as the two shifters before him.

Alpha Deucalion lifted a hand and placed it on the rim of his glass. His hand found purchase perfectly, oddly so due to his disability. Stiles wondered what sort of silent conversation the two shifters had in heartbeat and breadth of breath and scent. “Did you invite an outsider in hopes that it would deter me from talking about the past, Talia?”

Stiles expected the alpha to be dismissive of title. He had plans for if the Sovereign asked for the Hale lands, if the Sovereign was angry. Plans and treaties and bargains. The Queen and him spent most of the day before going over it.

Queen Talia regarded him for a moment. The pause she always gives when she was reading someone. This silence was comfortable to Stiles, he understood it. “He knows, Deucalion.” She said.

The Sovereign moved his head to where Stiles sat. His eyes didn’t line up as well as his hand did on the rim, off center enough to remind Stiles. “How did you find out, boy? I hear our parents paid dearly to keep it quiet throughout the kingdoms.”

“Queen. Uh, Talia told me.” He forwent the rank when she cuts her eyes at him.

“I’m surprised she still remembers me.” There was a deep bitterness in the alpha’s words.

“I’ve never forgotten you.” The Queen’s words were sharp. It smoothed the brow of Alpha Deucalion, her words sincere enough that Stiles didn’t need her heartbeat to check it. “Just because I knew there was no place for you at our family table didn’t mean that I wished you to starve.”

“It was never you that sent me away. But you didn’t send for my return, either.”

Queen Talia looked away. There was the faint sound of wind outside. Stiles plucked up his courage, and said, “It isn’t always safe for shifters in the northern lands. I’ve seen the…the effects of shifters and wolves coming into contact. There’s not always an easy solution that would allow everyone to come back.”

“Queen Lydia seemed to find a good solution.” Alpha Deucalion pointed out.

“The Martin lands are not the Hale lands.” Queen Talia said. “And I’m certain that there will be issues trying to enforce the sharing of land between the proud Cottleg shifters and humans.”

“You’re right there. I’ll probably ask her for a chunk of land for my pack to roam—that isn’t too close to the humans.”

“It’s going to be a cultural shock, for everyone involved. I’m afraid she didn’t think through how different her peoples are.” The Queen paused. “It has already caused hardship.”

“I am sorry about your niece.” Alpha Deucalion said. The two shifters straightened up and Stiles found himself doing the same. A few omegas came in, carrying wooden plates and platters. They set the plates down for each in attendance, with Stiles getting his last.

The platters were open to reveal the smoked trout that Queen Talia had spoken on. There were also some herbs littered around the plate and some boiled carrots and greens. Omegas gave them each a portion, bowing before leaving the room. They hadn’t spoken once, neither party.

“She is your niece, too.” Queen Talia sipped at her wine. Stiles watched her watch Alpha Deucalion, seeing if he would eat before her. In traditional custom, the eldest would eat first if they were of equal rank. He wasn’t sure if the Cottleg Alpha was of equal rank in regard to the Queen, but she seemed to believe so.

The Alpha cut a small piece of trout. His hands were graceful as he ate, assured of where his knife and fork should go. Stiles wondered if it took training. “I haven’t met any of my nieces or nephews to feel sorrow over their death.”

“Do I…” The Queen hesitated. “Do I have any nieces or nephews I don’t know about?” She could be asking for pack bonds, but Stiles knew that it was over the possible succession lines. The chance of a misplaced heir taking over Laura’s position.

“No. I decided not to take a mate.”

“I’ve heard you’ve lots of wives,” Stiles said. He felt as if he should add a title to soften his words. But Lord did not fit, nor did prince. There was a word that the Cottleg shifters used, but he could not recall it now. Alpha was out of the question, as he was not Stiles’.

Alpha Deucalion chuckled. “Wives are a loose word in the sands. They are more like spoils of war, elevated whores. A mate is different—a lifelong commitment between a shifter and his partner. The children of that pairing are the only legitimate ones that a Sovereign might have.” He directed his next words at the Queen. “So, no. There’s no one for you to worry over.”

“Okay.” She didn’t try to deny it. The table was silent for a moment while they chewed their food. Stiles, personally, found the use of basil on the trout to be excessive. If it settled wrong on his tongue, it was more than likely to be worse for the two shifters. “So, why did you decide now to contact me?”

“Instead of going through Deaton?” The Alpha smiled. The way he titled his head made Stiles believe that he had already seen the end of this game. That there was no way he wouldn’t win this hand. “I do know about your little spy.”

“I’ve only sent him to see how you are doing. He doesn’t report back on anything besides the fact that you are breathing.”

“To you.” Alpha Deucalion said. “Did you know he had an alliance with Sovereign Parrish?”

“No.” Queen Talia admitted. “I trust that he tells me what I need to know, and that he will do what I command. His free time is his, as he is not a Hale citizen.”

“Even if his free time landed our brother in the jail? Got him involved in a Borrak?”

“Lord Deaton assured me that he believed that my brother would be spared and treated kindly—as he has an alliance with me and the King Parrish.” Queen Talia smoothed the tablecloth next to her. It was a nervous habit, one that the Sovereign couldn’t see. But Stiles could. “And it is not like he could have prevented the challenge from being issued.”

Alpha Deucalion laughed. “Who do you think put the idea in his head? Do you really think that Peter knew what a Borrak was—when his job was to protect the Hale lands? I doubt he watched the desert as much as you did. He was just a baby when I left. Does he even remember me?”

There was a pause.

“Did you even tell him about me?”

“Peter has always done what he thinks is necessary for the protection of the Hale lands, of our lineage.” The Queen said. “I didn’t tell him because I was afraid he’d see you as a threat.”

“How do you know I’m not a threat?” Alpha Deucalion let the words float around them while he drank his wine. Stiles remembered suddenly that he was in the room with two apex predators and tried to force his heart to stop beating so hard. Showing fear in a time like this was unbecoming of a prince.

Queen Talia cleared her throat. “Which brings me back to my original question—what do you want, Deucalion? Why reach out now?”

“It’s advantageous to do so now. I’m here, aren’t I?” He smiled wider, and Stiles could see a bit of fang. He gripped at his pant legs. There were twelve steps between his seat and the door, and several guards outside the tent. “Believe it or not, Talia, you and I want the same goal. I’d like for no future prince to suffer my fate and the only way to do that is to change the minds of the Hale wolves.”

“If you are suggesting what I think you are, don’t. It’ll never work.” Her voice was firm.

“And why not?”

Before Queen Talia could explain, before they could be at each other’s throat, Stiles cleared his. This part of the conversation—this is what he had expected. “She’s right, Al—Sovereign.” That is what he had called himself. It sounded like the proper title. “If she cedes the throne to you, even if she does so willingly, there will be riots. The wolves will say you’re a sign of a bad reign coming. They will fight back.”

He took a deep breath. Neither of the Alphas interrupted him. Good. “When they do, you will have to quell it somehow. Any way you chose, they will use it against you. If you send them away, they’ll say you’re attempting to make the lands into shifter lands. Just reversing what has been going on forever. If you fight back, they will say they were right to banish shifters. That you are all aggressive, feral beasts.” Stiles winced at his words but didn’t take them back.

“And you suggest?” Alpha Deucalion asked.

“Perhaps ask Queen Lydia for Sleet’s Keep.” Stiles said. “There has been some raiding going on from that town into the Hale lands. If you take it over and then the raids stop, the wolves won’t be able to say that you’re out to get them.”

“It’ll be off of the official Hale lands. So, they won’t be able to force me off through some archaic law.” The Alpha’s smile dimmed somewhat. It wasn’t as if the idea seemed to upset him, just surprise him. “I wasn’t aware the issue between the feuding kingdoms was flush against the border.”

“It is. I’d offer to show you a map, but.” And then Stiles slapped a hand over his mouth. He watched, mortified in his words, to see the Sovereign’s response.

Alpha Deucalion just laughed. “I’ll have one of my Pawas check the maps.”

“I can’t guarantee that she’ll give it to you, but Gerard was the one who appointed the Lord of Sleet’s Keep. And Queen Lydia may be more open to negotiations after that.” Queen Talia said.

“I’m sure we can reach an agreement. But thank you for bringing it to my attention, boy.” The Sovereign directed his eyes towards Stiles. He looked back at Alpha Deucalion, getting the eerie sense that he could see if Stiles didn’t. “And it will be nice to prove to the wolves that shifters aren’t as cruel as the humans they sided with.”

Stiles made a noise in the back of his throat. A token protest that died when he remembered who he was speaking to. One of the more powerful Alphas of the deserts. The Sovereign heard it anyway.

“Who did you think did this to me?” He touched his eyes. It looked like there were claws along the wounds on his face, that his eyes were taken from a good slash from another shifter.

“I heard that your scars were from a Borrak.” Queen Talia said, confusion creasing her along her brows.

Alpha Deucalion waved a hand. “It is an easy enough cover story. One that has served me well. But it was when I was a young boy, just after our parents tossed me from the castle.” He paused, and Stiles watched him tip his head back. Lost in memory. “I had decided that I would get a job as a ship servant, instead of going to the sands. It would be easy enough to live off of the wages when I had room and board.

“I was on the boat for two years, watched it trade captains. I had visited the Republic, had a small home set up in Martin for the winter. There were a few wolves on the crew, and they could smell that I was a shifter. I guess that they thought I was wolf.

“I took the moons in my cabin, but I guess they grew mistrustful. They forced the shift on me in front of the rest of the crew. The captain, the new captain, was a suspicious fellow. He believed all tales—that you could only use wood that had already touched the sea for boats, that losing the left eye was a sign of bad fortune. That being a shifter, and not a wolf, was an ill omen.”

Both Queen Talia and Stiles sat enraptured. Their remaining food grew cold in front of them as they stayed still and quiet.

“The wolves suggested we cut a course for the Cottleg desert and dump me there. The crew, those that were from Hale, wanted to toss me overboard.” Alpha Deucalion scoffed. “But it was bad luck to kill a crew member, unless it was warranted. I was a good worker, and the captain knew that. He was afraid that if he killed me, the crew would suffer. He was afraid that if he let me go, I’d come back to kill him.

“So, he suggested that we keep me captive until the sea carried us to Cottleg, where they would handicap me to make me easier pickings for other shifters. The captain didn’t have to kill me or worry about me surviving long enough to remember him.” Alpha Deucalion’s hands played along his wine stem. “The humans were the ones to think up blinding. Least likely way to bleed out on the ship.”

“Why does it…” Stiles trailed off.

“Look like it came from another shifter?” Alpha Deucalion filled in the blanks. “When I won my first Borrak, several months after being tossed to the sands and very desperate to survive, I met my first Pawa. I had him cut me that way, with a certain snake venom that would keep the scars. That way other packs saw and drew their own conclusions.”

“And did you ever go back and find the captain?” Stiles couldn’t help but ask. Alpha Deucalion didn’t seem the type to let that kind of injustice go unpunished.

“Oh, I never sought him out. But he did come back to the desert, to barter for some kanima skin.” The Sovereign paused. “Or did you mean, did I kill him? Because that answer is yes.”

\--

The next morning dawned misty, a fog laden over the camp. Stiles had excused himself shortly after the Sovereign’s story. Perhaps the two siblings would like a moment alone. He saw Derrik go into the tent after Alpha Deucalion left, most likely to ask Queen Talia about it.

There was a chance she would tell him everything, including who the Alpha was. Stiles could hope. He had spent the rest of the day in his tent, letting his emotions fill and empty out of him. Omegas brought him dinner, but he was otherwise undisturbed.

He woke up and felt like he could survive another day. Stiles could survive having to act the prince.

By lunch time, he had convinced himself of this. He was out in the camp, tending to his horse. The omegas rushed around him. There was always something else to be accomplished. The clothes needed to be washed, or fire needed more wood. Food had to be caught, and cleaned, and cooked. Sometimes, Stiles wished he could be caught up in the more mundane tasks and help.

He would be absolutely rubbish at it for a good few years, but he had faith he could get better.

There was that undercurrent of disapproval from the other servants, though. The way they would tense up if he spent too much time around them. It was the same in the Stilinski kingdom. There was fear that they would be punished. That he could punish them.

Derrik and he were supposed to eat lunch together, after the prince came back from his hunting session. If Stiles had a bow, he’d probably knock all his arrows into a tree. But there’d be the excuse of leaving the camping grounds. He wasn’t allowed off the grounds for the time being.

While Stiles was waiting, a calling howl rang up among the omegas. Someone was approaching. He darted towards the front of the tents, wondering if he would catch a glimpse of the new Queen or King.

Instead, Stiles saw Scot and he was off. There was no way any wolf was going to prevent him from seeing his brother. It had only been three months, but it had felt like a forever. There was so much there that it could constitute a forever. His brother was riding an unknown horse, with no Stilinski markings on the saddle.

Scot pulled the horse up short when he saw Sties. As they neared each other, Stiles felt his heart thud into his chest. An ice shard had been placed next to the chambers that beat blood, chilling him. A near wild look dominated Scot’s eyes.

He jumped from the saddle, closing the distance to hold onto Stiles. An aggressive scent-marking took place while Stiles struggled on what to say.

Scot spoke first. “I’m headed back home. I have—I have to get away for a while.”

“I’ll come with you.” Stiles said. He meant it, too. He’d follow his brother to the ends of the Earth if that’s what Scot wanted.

He shook his head. “Thank you, but no. I need the time to myself.”

“Stay for lunch, at least. Let me be with you for a moment.”

“Okay.” Scot agreed, but it was to appease Stiles. It was clear that it wasn’t for the brother’s desire. He looked to the horse like all he wanted was to get on and fly away, never to return.

Derrik said nothing when he saw Scot was joining them. He shouldered down next to Stiles, gestured for an omega to serve them. Stiles kept floundering on how to speak to his brother—should he bring up Princess Allison? Should he talk on he and Derrik? Would it be insensitive to speak on that? Is Princess Allison truly dead?

They’re drinking ale, weak stuff that was made to keep clean water, when Derrik sat his cup down. “If the situation is so dire, then I could ask my mother. She would give the bite to Princess Allison.”

Scot looked at him like the words meant nothing. Then, he runs a hand through his hair. “She’s already been given the bite—by the King Parrish.” His lip curled over the name.

Stiles wanted to ask why Scot was upset then, what had created the manic look in his eye. He wasn’t sure how to. Derrik nodded like he understood. “I’m sorry.”

His brother vibrated in his seat; tears sprung up in his eyes. “I have to go.” His plate, some roasted rabbit meat and bread from the Martin market, fell to the ground. He paid it no mind. Stiles moved to stand to. Scot held up his hands. “Please, I can’t. Stiles.” Scot struggled to string together sentences.

Derrik put a hand on Stiles’ arm, preventing him from completely rising. And he trusted his love, so he settled back into his seat. He watched, passive, while Scot rode away from him once more. It hurt more and less than the last time.

His prince didn’t remove his hand until Scot was well out of sight. Stiles sat still next to him, despite wanting to jump up and ask what he was doing? What was going on?

“When I was sixteen, I met a Lady named Paige Krasikeva. I fell for her instantly.” Stiles kept quiet. He hadn’t asked about Lady Paige out of respect, not from lack of curiosity. “She was the reason I broke of my engagement to Princ—Lady Katherine. I loved spending time with her, but the winter made her lungs shake when she breathed. For so many months out of the year, she would struggle to get out of bed for how taxing the simple act of breathing was.

“Even the months she was able to move around, she could rarely visit nature. The Hale lands were cruel to her. It was almost always cold enough to make her lungs rattle. My mother and I thought that it may be an issue that could be cured through the bite—a lot of illness can. It is customary to wait until after mating for the Alpha to offer the bite. But Paige wouldn’t even be able to complete the mating run.

“And it was something I wanted desperately, so my mother broke tradition to ask her. Paige said yes and my mother bit her right after the full moon. It gives the longest time for a wolf to settle before facing the moon.” Derrik explained.

“The bite…it didn’t take. It’s rare for it not to, but not impossible. Some people respond poorly to it, and their blood turns to ash in their veins. There is no stopping the infection once it begins. A wound with purpose like that cannot be taken back. There is only one outcome for it being rejected.”

Stiles didn’t say it out loud. Princess Allison may not be dead yet, but she would be soon. And Scot didn’t want to be anywhere near the Martin lands when it happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finished writing it all, so you will be getting the next two updates on time! Woo!
> 
> Also: Stiles is my favorite character to write, usually always, but I rarely write him. I'm not sure why???? Almost every fic I've ever written on me bois is from Derek's POV. 
> 
> Stiles' last chapter is background dump city y'all.
> 
> Next update: 6/15


	25. Lydia

“Perhaps you should not drink that,” T’ara said. It was the first thing she said since Allison was cut collarbone to rib by the Lady Erica.

By the deceased Lady Erica.

By the deceased Lady Erica who was in company of the Queen Talia Hale, of the Hale lands. Who border on Lydia’s kingdom—who she had to make a good first impression with to prevent _war_.

Lydia wanted more than anything some of the red wine she had sent an omega to fetch. They linger outside the healer’s chambers, and she cannot hear what is going on. How he is going to stitch up the displaced princess. The omega had brought the wine in the skin it came from Stilinski in. A fine enough crop to keep from the barrel.

She brought it up to her mouth and T’ara stopped her. “I mean it.” It was unlike the Pawa to be so pushy with her. So demanding on something as small as getting wine-drunk while waiting to see if one or two ladies were dead on the morrow.

“Why not?” T’ara sighed, and it was a sound that Lydia had grown accustomed to. It was something that Parrish had been keeping from her specifically, something that T’ara knew. “Tell me.” Lydia demanded.

“You shouldn’t drink, because you are with child.” T’ara said.

Lydia thought back on her last blood day. Her mating was almost three months prior, and she certainly had one in the desert. The heat and lack of water made her stink and sticky and she had avoided her mate. Surely, she had had another since?

“How long have you been able to tell?” Lydia asked, lowering the wine skin. The cap was re-screwed and she cast her eyes about for servant to send it back from whence it came.

“A few weeks. Your scent changed.”

“And Parrish?” Lydia didn’t have to think that he knew before T’ara. Travelling among the pack had shown her that Sovereigns were capable of much greater feats than the average shifter. “How long do you think he’s known?”

“I can’t say. Some wives’ tales say that a Sovereign can tell the moment a child is conceived.” T’ara paused. “I don’t put much stock in them, and neither should you, my Queen.”

“But you’d say before the raid? Perhaps even before we left Silverstead?” It would have to be, as that was when T’ara would have begun noticing.

“Most likely.”

“Did he tell you not to say anything to me?” There was a fire, something familiar and hateful that she felt at her mate, burning in her chest. Where was he now? A snatch of panic and he killed a Lady of Hale, but this rage—and he is missing. It felt as if he was collaring her. Her throat was tight and the rope he kept her on frayed.

“No,” T’ara said. Lydia, for once, had a hard time believing her. “I thought he had told you. And that you didn’t want to speak on it until…until we were in safer woods.”

“We are in the capital city of the Martin lands. There’s not much safer than this.” Lydia said derisively. Perhaps Parrish only lead T’ara to believe that he had spoken to Lydia on this matter. It was more comforting a thought than that he could lie so well as his heart not to stutter.

Was the way he treated her now a precursor to how he’d treat her in the kingdom? In ruling matters?

T’ara shook her head. She could speak the human tongue well enough, but sometimes had a time determining the best words. Shifter tongue was almost always metaphorical, and the translations were rusty, variable, and confusing most of the time. “Not like that. It is commonplace for shifter babies to be hard on the mother. Humans don’t often carry a Sovereign’s child, and rarer still for the child to make it to birth. It would be an understandable desire to wait until the first half was over—then you’d know the baby would come.”

“If it’s so difficult, why would he—?” Lydia was at a loss for words. There were no sounds coming from the healer’s chambers and it was driving her mad. “He was there, in the royal chambers, when I toasted to our victory. He watched me drink of the wine on the table and said nothing. Why—”

The Pawa motioned for her to stop speaking. Lydia trusted T’ara, as she hadn’t lied or pretended with her yet, and so she cut herself off. A few moments passed and a haggard looking Prince Scot hurried down the corridor. T’ara stepped in front of Lydia.

“Is Lady Allison alright? Will she be okay? Has the healer, has he come out yet?” Prince Scot seemed to forget his pleasantries in the worry. He looked to T’ara, focusing on the first person in front of him.

Lydia had these questions as well, but she wanted achingly for T’ara to handle it. She had fumbled the interaction between Lady Erica and herself so poorly that it was like a shattered wine glass, slipped through unprepared fingers. There was no putting back the pieces, and she only hoped to sweep up the glass well enough that she didn’t spend the next year worried for when another piece would stab her foot.

“You can hear the chambers as well as I, Prince Scot. The healer has yet to come out.” T’ara said.

“Then we should go in,” Prince Scot stepped to move around T’ara. She countered the move. “I could take her pain while the healer works.”

“I’m sure he has already given her something for the pain. You can hear her heartbeat—it is as if she asleep.”

“Or as if she is dying,” Prince Scot said, choking on the last word. “She could be bleeding out as we stand here.”

“And what could you do in there, that the healer could not? You possess no great healing ability.” T’ara rebutted. “You would get in the healer’s way. If Lady Allison is going to make it, he needs to be able to do what he must to help her along.”

Prince Scot deflated at her words. Lydia was surprised to see him keep company with reason in a time like this. He wore his emotions easily on his face, a tight-eyed desperation that marred his features. The clothes he wore were rumpled, and his hair was messy, as if he had worn them for days instead of one morning.

He came to take residence up on the stone wall with Lydia, finally noting her presence. “Queen Lydia,” Prince Scot greeted. There was too much panic for her to glean if he was upset with her or found her to be the source of the trouble Allison was in.

“Prince Scot,” She said, cordially bowing her head. Lydia would keep up appearances until she knew who wanted her here and who wanted her dead. The only person not from the packs she was certain on that count was laying on a healer’s cot a room away.

\--

They were not permitted to see Allison until dusk. The healer came out in clean robes and gave them strict instructions to not touch her. Parrish had made an appearance moments before. Lydia was unable to speak to him about his secret-keeping with Prince Scot hovering close by.

She settled on not speaking to him at all.

Allison was paler than her normal, ivory skin-tone. She lay out on the cot asleep, a thin gown covering her modesty. There was a swath of cloth that wrapped around her shoulder, dipping below the sleeping dress.

“Will she make it?” Prince Scot found his words before she did hers.

The healer shifted. “There’s no way to know, currently. We will have to see if the wound festers in the night. Lady Erica had spent many weeks on the road, and the grime transferred from her to the Lady Allison. I’ve done my best to purge the wound, but only time can tell.”

“I could heal her.” Parrish lingered near her right, a steady presence of heat. Lydia was finding it sweltering in the moment. “She’d be a shifter, but she’d be alive.”

Lydia knew this was his way of apologizing. Of trying to right what he had wronged. There was no way to bring back the dead lady or attempt to soothe the Hale matriarch, but he could restore this for her.

“No.” Prince Scot said. “I know there are dangers to the bite—we should wait and see.”

“The dangers are small.” Parrish argued. Lydia had never heard on ill-effects of the shifter’s bite, and she wondered if her mate would have told her of them before attempting to turn Allison.

“The dangers are real. And the choice should be hers.”

“What danger is there in the bite?” Lydia asked.

“It is small.” Parrish hesitated, sliding his eyes away from her. He did not like her prodding at anything he hadn’t put directly in front of her. Such as Silverstead and her own pregnancy. “But her body could reject it, at which point she will die. There is no cure for it. But she is going to die anyway.”

“We don’t know that.” Prince Scot said, stepping forward. T’ara moved to block him. It was a gesture she had to do once or twice with Lydia and Parrish—a caring, protective gesture.

“Prince Scot is right.” Lydia said, straightening her shoulders. “Tomorrow morning, if Lady Allison is in worse condition, we should re-approach the topic.”

“She could die in the night.” Parrish looked to T’ara for support, but she did not meet his eye, busy holding onto Prince Scot.

Lydia sighed, a flare of annoyance going down the mating bond. It was met with stubborn scorn. They both thought themselves to be right. “Does she smell sick? Or just wounded? Is there illness already rotting away her body?”

“No.” Parrish responded.

“Then it is unlikely that she will die tonight. It takes time for a wound to worsen.” Allison had not shifted once in their conversations. She hoped tomorrow that they could have an interaction somewhat similar to how their lunch could go. That she would be able to assuage Allison’s worries over her family, tell her that Lord Christopher was out looking for her mother.

Lydia would have to send someone to find Lord Christopher, fetch him back to his daughter’s sick bed. She swore to him that she’d keep Allison safe and it was another mark against her short rule.

“Parrish, I need to talk to you.” Lydia could not stand quiet while she waited for them to have a private moment. They left T’ara in the healer’s chambers with Prince Scot. She walked next to her mate, saying nothing. He would stop when they were in the best position to have the necessary conversation.

When they paused, Parrish did not allow her a word in first. “I did not know ladies of the lands would dress in such clothing or behave in such a way. I did what I thought was best for the protection of your friend.” It was no apology. Lydia wanted to snarl back that he could have heeded her instruction to wait, but like all of her instructions, he chose to ignore it.

But that would not bring back Lady Erica.

“I need you to select a few shifters to go out to the neighboring villages and find Lord Christopher. I believe Allison will be fine, but I won’t have it resting on me if he doesn’t have the chance to see her.” Lydia said. “I also need you to find a few to accompany  
Sovereign Deucalion to see the Queen Talia, who will take back Lord Peter to his sister. Let them know we will preserve Lady Erica’s body, so that her burial may be under the wolves’ Mother Moon.”

“Lord Peter cannot return yet.” Parrish looked away from her. “I will send some of my pack to find the Argent Lord, but Peter will stay. He has challenged me.”

“Challenged you?” He was captive in the dungeons.

“To a Borrak.” Parrish said gently. As if softening the words would soften the impact.

Lydia shook her head, a tide of anger a familiar constant in her. “You are King. He cannot challenge you for anything—unless there is to be all-out war. You can’t—you can’t just offer a battle to the death to whoever wishes to contest you.”

“Vatrya has made it clear. Only a weak Sovereign would refuse a Borrak, and she would not shine on them.”

“Then have someone else, one of your Pawas, take your place. You are needed in the Martin lands, alive and whole, more than your pride needs you to prove you can cut down a beta wolf.”

Parrish snarled, a small flash of fang. “It’s my battle.”

“And the next will be yours as well!” Lydia threw her hands up. “Anyone who has quarrel with the Martin lands will be in a personal battle with you, so long as you sit on the throne. Which won’t be long if you can’t protect yourself from threats with sensible defense.”

“I have already accepted his challenge. There is nothing else to say.”

“How about say you won’t accept anymore? Tell me that this will be your last Borrak.”

Parrish was silent.

\--

Lydia didn’t sleep in her chambers that night, taking over Allison’s rooms. T’ara stood at the window and watched her drift off. She recalled a light touch to her face, when she was floating between the dream world and the real one.

When she woke up, it is to T’ara speaking at the door with someone. Lydia didn’t attempt to interrupt the conversation. There was a distinct feeling in her chest that she knew, a semi-guilt, and she believed that the words did not have to be heard to be understood. T’ara looked at her when the door swung close, her face closed and tight. Worried.

She didn’t dress before walking from Allison’s rooms. T’ara followed her from behind, footsteps silent and careful. The human servants looked aghast at her lack of modesty, but Lydia couldn’t care less. She was an Alpha mate, even if she and her Alpha were hurdling away from each other like a broken ship’s planks at stormy sea. They would learn soon enough.

The healer was outside the doors when they arrived. Lydia wasn’t sure if it was because he had taken to hiding out there, or if a stray beta had told him to expect the Queen.

“When did it happen?” Lydia asked. She didn’t need to specify.

The healer had beads of sweat on his brow, a nervous countenance. He expected to be punished. “The King must have come in the middle of the night. Sometime close to dawn. I woke up every other hour to check on the Lady Allison, and that is when I noticed…”

Though he trailed off, Lydia knew what he wasn’t saying. “The infection. Can I see her? Is she awake?”

“Yes,” he said. “She’s awake. It’s as if the bite is eating away anything I give for the pain—anything I give for sleep.”

Lydia moved past him then. She wasn’t going to punish him for her mate’s crimes, but someone would pay in flesh for this. Though it was uncertain if she would do anything before Prince Scot did.

She’d have to tell Prince Scot.

Before they reached the bed, Lydia could smell the sick. It must have been unbearable for T’ara. The Pawa made no complaint. Instead, she touched Lydia’s wrist gently, a thumb-rub as a comfort. “I need to let Prince Scot know.”

“I can collect him for you.” T’ara said, withdrawing her hand. Lydia missed the warmth and weight of it instantly. “So that way you don’t have to be far.”

“Do you think it will be soon?” Lydia asked. They had stopped in the middle of the chamber; Allison’s cot was on the far wall, facing the window. It was to keep her mind busy when she woke up and recovered from her wounds. There would be no recovery from this.

T’ara hesitated. “I can’t say. I’ve never seen a bite rejection—it’s more myth in the desert sands.”

“I hope her lord father makes it back in time.” Lydia sighed and wondered if the heavy duty and mistakes shackled to her name were worth the crown. If the way she went was the best. “Please, bring Prince Scot. Tell the healer to let me know when you return.”

Then it was her and Allison alone in the room. Alone for the first time since all those years prior, in that little linen closet. Lydia made her way slowly to her old friend, braced herself for what she would see.

It was worse than she had expected, and yet better. Allison’s body wasn’t rotting from the inside out, cheeks sunken and holes in the flesh. Rather, she retained her form. Her skin was ghostly, the only color on her face was black. It came from the fluid that leaked from her, from every part of her. Nose, mouth, eyes, and the wound.

The healer clearly gave up on bandaging back up the wound when it was a lost cause. There was a dumping of cloths, covered in that black blood, in a bucket nearby. The claw mark was open, weeping, pulsing with every moment that Allison breathed. Every movement put it on display and Lydia couldn’t help but wince away from the grotesqueness of it.

Her friend was delirious. Lydia touched her cheek, a small part of her face that wasn’t dripping in the liquid ash and found it to be burning. There was a rag upon her forehead, and Lydia found the bowl of water it came from. She returned it there, cooling it before resting it back on Allison.

Allison’s eyes were shut but she was whispering. Her eyes moved behind their lids in frantic, random motions. Every few moments, a cough would rise out her chest and appeared to take everything Allison had—every time—to expel it from her body.

Lydia wasn’t sure what she should say.

She said nothing and waited for Allison to return back to her. Waited for a lucid moment where they could speak. Lydia wondered if she wanted it so badly so that she could give some peace to Allison—though, she had no idea if she was capable—or so that Allison could absolve her of this.

Someone slipped into the doorway, and Lydia looked up. She was expecting the healer, but instead saw T’ara. Alone.

“Prince Scot?” She asked, though the answer seemed clear.

“He did not take the news well. I don’t think he will return here.”

“Let him go.” Lydia said. She could understand wanting to keep someone alive in your mind, and if you never saw them die, it was like they weren’t ever dead. It was a small comfort.

T’ara moved further into the room, crept closer to Allison’s sick bed. Lydia did not rise from it. “Let me fetch you some lunch, my Queen.”

“I’m not in the mood to eat.” Her body felt fatigued from the lack of nourishment, but Lydia was more apt to bring up anything she put down. Allison hacked a horrid cough, wet and tearing through her. Some of her blood slipped through her lips and down her chin. Lydia wiped it from her jaw, spreading it on her night gown.

T’ara sidled even closer. It was as if she did not want to get too close to the dying Lady, hesitant to be able to look upon her. “You will need it. For you and—for the baby.” T’ara stumbled over the words. “Please. Let me take care of you.”

Who knew a heart could clench so hard it felt like it would collapse for anything other than fire hot desire? Lydia was familiar with the feeling—had felt it when she saw Parrish’s body or when she thought on putting a knife through Gerard’s throat, but never for something that wasn’t tangible. There was no purpose for the feeling now. None but to remind her that T’ara still found her precious.

“Okay. Bring something light on the stomach to me.” Lydia said, sighing. “And some boy’s wine, please.”

“Are you sure you’d like to eat here?”

Lydia cut a look behind her, where T’ara hovered. All that was in T’ara face was concern and compassion. The Pawa did not ask her again if she was sure, before taking leave.

Her dress was more black than the white it started when Allison finally returned to Lydia. The Lady’s eyes opened slowly, like she was coming from a deep dream, and looked up to Lydia. There was a terrible moment where there was no recognition in her face, before Allison transformed to an apparent madness and gripped at the nightgown Lydia wore.

“Mother,” She said, words gurgling around the blood in her throat. “Mommy.”

Lydia was cut by indecision—she did not know whether to tell Allison the truth, or if Allison was too far gone to hear it.

Allison continued. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Mommy. I didn’t mean to—I was scared.” Cries bubbled up from in her; her dark eyes filled with tears.

A hand to her forehead, Lydia hushed Allison. “It’s okay. I forgive you.” She would never see her mother again, and there was only the smallest chance she’d see her father. This comfort was something Lydia could give.

She rubbed gently at Allison’s temple, soothing the Lady. For a few moments, all that was in the room were Allison’s heaving breaths, and the sound of blood falling from somewhere on the cot.

“I’ve always loved your hair.” Allison whispered. For a moment, Lydia thought she knew it was her. But only a moment. Afterall, Lady Victoria did have the Martin red locks. “Our hair. I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I never told you. I had to dye it because Gerard—because,” Her voice seemed to give out. Lydia shushed her once more.

Some more of the black came from Allison’s nose. How much blood does a body hold?

A sharp, hard breath told Lydia that she was going to try to speak again. Lydia leaned close, to hear every word. Allison deserved someone to hear her.

“Do you hate me? Do you hate that I pushed you away—to keep safe? Mommy, do you hate me?”

“Never,” Lydia said, fiercely. She felt choked by emotion, thick in her throat and burning her eyes. Keeping her breaths measured hurt, but she knew she’d sob if she relinquished. “I could never hate you, Allison. I swear it.”

A ghost of a smile flitted over Allison’s face, like an afterthought. Her body, held so taught, relaxed against her cot. She was finally sleeping.

T’ara returned, carrying a small platter. She stopped at the doorway and Lydia turned to see her. “I’ve changed my mind. Perhaps we should eat somewhere else. Let her have her rest.”

\--

Lady Allison Argent, former Princess of the Martin lands, died the next morning. It dawned sunny and clear, with the song of spring echoing throughout the castle. Birds and frogs and cicadas could be heard from the windows and the scent of fresh flowers wafted through the corridors.

Lydia thought that it should rain. That the world should be silent, on the day she lost her oldest friend. She allowed herself one day, locked from the world, still in Allison’s chambers. Tomorrow, she’d continue her duties as Queen.

\--

There were four days before the Borrak. Lydia had spoken to Parrish only a handful of times, and only to tell him that she thought him foolish, stubborn, and wishing for death.

Sovereign Deucalion had requested Sleet’s Keep from her and she gave him leave with his pack to claim it. Under any means necessary. Any negotiations that she would have with Queen Talia were put off, both sides waiting to see what would transpire.

Lord Deaton, perhaps the only truly neutral party, requested a dinner with her. She agreed under the condition that they meet outside the castle walls. T’ara said that it was reckless, to endanger herself that way. Especially when she forbid the Pawa from following after her.

Lydia only wanted to speak without wondering what was brought back to her husband. What plans she’d create that he’d see destroyed. She did not tell T’ara not to tell Parrish, but T’ara knew what she wanted all the same.

There was a small table set up at the edge of the forest, right outside the outer slope of the castle gardens. Lord Deaton sat waiting for her. When Lydia came close enough, he took a pouch—one that she recognized readily—and offered her some. A small thread of guilt pushed through her, one that she trampled down fiercely for fear of her mating bond, and she spread the ash along her wrist.

“Thank you for agreeing to dine with me.” Lord Deaton said, pleasantly.

“One of my advisors thinks I have a death wish for meeting with you here.” Lydia responded, settling into her seat. Before her were small cuts of bread, meat and cheese. There were grapes beside the plate, in a soup bowl. The food was clearly picked for the lack of attraction it gave to the insects of the woods.

“I would have met you in the castle, if that was what you wished.” He shrugged. “I have no desire to see you dead, Queen Lydia. I cannot say that for your mate.”

The direct way he spoke caused Lydia to freeze. Her hand held a grape, brought close to her mouth, and she felt she could neither finish the move nor abandon it. “Parrish.”

“There have always, always been plans to see you back to your throne. None of my ideas had a Sovereign in them, save for Deucalion occasionally. And never as your mate. By the time I realized you were finding a way back to your homelands on your own, you were almost to Vatrya. I could not get there before your plan came to fruition.”

“You wouldn’t have seen me marry a Sovereign?” She asked.

“No.” Lord Deaton was forward. Perhaps it was because he trusted her. Perhaps because Lydia was close to war with at least one other kingdom, possibly a second for a rejected bite and prince’s dead betrothed, and she could not afford to incite more division. “Sovereigns learn quickly how to rule their packs with an iron fist, or they die. There is little to be said for politics that don’t involve blood out on the sands. I fear that Parrish will not be able to learn a different way to rule.”

He paused, considered his next words. “I fear that he will never see the humans of your lands as equal to the shifters. That there will be a great disunion between your people, one that cannot be mended while he sits next to you.”

Her mind flashed to the slurs he threw out to Lord Christopher, how he had degraded him not as a traitor but as a human.

“What would you have me to do? I bear the scar of him.” Some nights, it itched something horrid, pressed hard against her heart and reminded her of what she sold for a piece of gold around her head.

“There is not much you’d have to do. Something very, very simple.” Lord Deaton leaned towards her. Lydia’s head spun, dizzy with the fact that she was hearing out an assassination on the King—hearing out a plot to murder her own mate. “It will be a liquid. All you would have to do would be to put some in his wine. I would have it sent to you in a—discreet way.”

“I…” Lydia wanted to say no outright. She wanted to say yes outright. “I need time to think.”

“Take your time. I’ll send someone with my gift in two days’ time, so that it might be fashioned appropriately. It will be your choice to use it or not.”

And Lord Deaton left her, left the food untouched.

Lydia made her way back to the castle. She left the table out in the woods and knew that Lord Deaton would send omegas to collect it. When the ruggedness of the woods gave way to pebbled walkways and trimmed bushes, T’ara appeared before her.

“My Queen,” She said, but it sounded as if she said that she was glad that Lydia had not been killed. “Lord Christopher has arrived.”

A deep breath. Lydia had to put on a new face, cover up the shock of the last hour. The last several months had been an uphill trial, and still there was no crest in sight. “Has anyone given him the news yet?”

“The shifters told him on the road that she had been injured. No one has said anything about,” T’ara cut herself off. “He is waiting in her old chambers.”

“You’ll wait outside the door for me.” Lydia decided.

The walk there was quiet. T’ara didn’t ask what she discussed Lord Deaton, and Lydia wasn’t sure what she would tell the Pawa. If she would ask for T’ara to trust her. But Lydia had no need to ask, as T’ara trusted her implicitly. Wonderfully.

Lord Christopher was sitting on Allison’s bed when Lydia arrived. She shut the door behind her. T’ara would be able to hear her if she were in trouble. The bed was still rumpled from when Lydia had rose from it that morning.

He looked to her, eyes rimmed red. His face was set. “You don’t have to tell me. I would have been sent to the healer’s chambers if she were there to see.”

“I’m sorry.” Lydia knew how empty the words were in comfort.

“Was it infection? From the wound Lady Erica inflicted on her?” Lord Christopher closed his eyes, braced to hear the news.

Lydia hesitated for only a second. “No. It was bite rejection.”

“Your king?” She could have him tossed from the castle for that simple insolence. His family had been lords and ladies of the Martin lands for generations, and any king that sat upon the throne was his. Instead, she only felt tired.

“Parrish believed it would heal her.” Lydia said.

“You didn’t?” Lord Christopher asked. “Clearly, Prince Scot didn’t. He would have met me here if he was still in the castle.”

“We—Prince Scot and I—thought it best to wait.”

“It would have been.” He agreed, running a hand through his hair. “Your mate is not the type to wait for anything, though, is he?”

Lydia said nothing.

“I haven’t found my wife yet. But I will. And when I do, don’t expect me back here.” Lord Christopher got a faraway look to his eyes, staring down at Allison’s bedding. He gripped at the soft blanket before releasing it. “Your Sovereign is a warlord, Queen Lydia. He’s probably always been—what made him an apt leader in Cottleg. But it does mean that while he rules, you’ll have nothing but that. Nothing but war.”

He rose from the bed, casting one glance around the room. It was not enough, in Lydia’s eyes, to commit it to memory. But he had seen it for years on end already. “Quivering Wood will still be your namesake, Lord Christopher. For as long as I sit on the throne, you will have lands to return home to.” She paused. “And you will have men, if you want them, to aid in the search of your wife.”

It was an apology, and there is never any thanks to an apology. The Lord nodded, showing himself out.

\--

When the omega servant brought her the poison, for Lydia could not deny that that was what it was, it came in the form of a ring. It was a beautiful piece of moonpearl, set in silver, that came loose from its encasement. The young omega explained how her queen grandmother, when Lord Deaton knew her, wore a ring similarly to celebrate her marriage to the king.

He showed her how it opened while he spoke, face never changing. Lydia wondered how Lord Deaton was able to train them so young to perform so well in the art of deception. A small hole sat on the bottom of the moonpearl, the purpose hidden in flaw. A tough encasement of wax could be broken through the silver and a liquid dripped out of it.

A betrayal should Lydia decide for it.

Part of her wished to speak to Parrish on the matter, to reach an agreement. Her body had finally begun to alert her to the child growing within. She felt a thin layer of nausea coating the back of her throat throughout the day. And yet. He hadn’t spoken to her about their child. About her condition.

There was a divide between them. It was an undisputable fact, and it was one that she could not afford now. Their pack needed safety, the Martin lands needed safety, she needed safety.

Lord Christopher had the half of it when he called Parrish a warlord.

The night before the Borrak, Parrish asked Lydia to dine with him. It was one of the few times they had seen each other after Allison’s death. They were both busy with different duties—Lydia reconnecting with the lords and ladies of the lands and Parrish finding space for the pack within the woods round the city.

It was in the royal quarters, a place that Parrish had taken and made his own. Many of his skins were hung proud on the walls, his ornamental weapons propped in various corners of the room. Lydia expected for the table to have been replaced with the one that they’d had in the sands. The heretic table remained though, possibly as a private way to scoff at the wolves.

Across it was set a feast. There was boar as the centerpiece, bright red and shining in the candlelight. An exotic fruit, round and pink, littered the feet of the beast. There were small pots of sterling that rested on curled feet inches above the table. Each contained a type of soup, some creams and others that allowed leafy vegetables to steep. Two separate platters of cheese sat on the table, sliced delicately to show the rinds and holes in the different pieces.

At her seat, directly across from Parrish—who took the head of the table—was a small chocolate treat. Atop it were cherries, their red juice spilled onto the small dish the food sat on.

“This is rather…rich.” Lydia managed.

Parrish shrugged, watched her with the same undiscernible look in her eyes as the first time she met him. A small smile tugged at his lips. “We can afford one night of luxury.” The smile faded some. “Here, it seems every night is a luxury.”

Lydia settled into her seat. “There is enough here for all our people.”

“I don’t know why we never tried to find space in the lower kingdoms.” Parrish said. “It isn’t if most of our pack was born in the sands.”

“There would be war.” There still might be war, but Lydia didn’t know if she should contribute that fact to Parrish being a shifter or Parrish being raised in the desert. “You’d find all the land occupied, none for the packs. And most shifters took to the sands at a young age. The view of the world is often skewed when young.”

“I doubt any shifter was able to be young for long.” Parrish looked away. Lydia ate a cherry from her plate, refusing to ask. He would speak on his own past when he decided to. If he decided to—before. “I want—more than anything—I want there to be a space where those like me, like my pack, can live free. Without sucking on rags to get water, or the omegas dying and being used as meat.”

“Creating tensions within the kingdoms creates a safe space for no one.” Lydia said.

Parrish served her a cut of meat, giving her plate a small sample of what was placed on the table. “Those in the kingdoms have lived safe long enough. If they cannot feel safe with shifters around, then they do not deserve to.”

“The people in this kingdom are part of your pack—shifter or no. They deserve safety as much as anyone else we have brought to our lands.” Lydia’s insides twisted. Parrish did not see the lands as she did at all. He saw them as something to claim for the shifters, not something share and protect and rule. “Perhaps if they weren’t worried that they could be challenged and killed for simple crimes, or knew there’d be a more equal justice, then they wouldn’t be so scared of shifters.”

“What is not equal in my justice?”

Lydia ate some of the pig before her before answering. Perhaps Parrish had killed it himself. “Let’s say that a shifter and a human are having a dispute. The human is claiming that the shifter killed and ate one of his chickens. What would you have done?”

“The shifter could lose his hand, if I sensed he was lying. But why would they take this up with me? It is a dispute they could settle among themselves.”

“If they were two humans or two shifters, I’d agree with you. But there is a power imbalance there—if the human confronts the shifter, he could lose his life or be maimed. The chance that humans could be taken advantage of since they are slower and weaker is a strong fear, a fear that had the lower kingdoms refuse shifters as well.” Lydia remembered this part of her history lesson. “If the king dismissed these cases out of hand, the humans would not trust their king. It could lead to insurgence.”

“I cannot take away power from a shifter, or gift it to a human and keep them human.” Parrish said, stepping over the point she was attempting to make. “There would be too many cases of this, and it would be improbable for me to take them all. Impossible.”

“You could lay law down forbidding bloodletting as a form of dispute settlement between shifters and humans.”

“That is not something I could forbid. It is a commandment of Vatrya—you’d have me defy god?” The metal of the fork bent between Parrish’s fingers. “You’d not ask that of a wolf.”

“The wolves’ Mother Moon doesn’t command bloodshed.” Lydia responded.

“Just abandonment.” Parrish said.

“Vatrya might command it between shifters, but that doesn’t mean that she would have it between the men and shifters. And the men, they don’t follow Vatrya or her commandments.”

“They will if they live under me.” Parrish swore.

“No.” Lydia’s voice came out like a punch from her lungs. It was what had set apart her kingdom from the others, the ability to come here and practice whatever they pleased. To be beholden to what was just, not what some deity commanded. “They will not.”

The table was as wide as the sea, for all that they stared at each other across it, they could not find common ground. Parrish, who had started the dinner soft towards her, had walled himself off again. Lydia knew that her mouth was tight and stance unforgiving. A few moments of tense silence rose and fell between them.

“I do not know how to fix this.” Parrish said. “To fix us.”

“Neither do I.” Lydia admitted. The moment of bare honesty startled her, warmed her somewhat.

“Is there something I can do…something to make it better?”

There was a lot that she had asked for. Things that he had been unwilling to do or compromise on. She worried that the laws of Vatrya may be another thing, something to fight on again. Asking for a consistent change of behavior was impractical here, especially as Lydia had already decided on her mate’s fate. But she could ask for something of substance.

“Give me T’ara.” Lydia said, squaring her shoulders. It was an uncommon practice, but not forbidden by Vatrya. Typically, it was only done when a Sovereign was going to war. A Pawa to protect an Alpha mate, even after the Alpha’s death sometimes. She couldn’t protect Haigh and Vargas from the Burning Plains, but she might be able to do so with T’ara.

It was clear on Parrish’s face that he would give her what she wanted.

\--

Lydia couldn’t find it in herself the night before to finish what she set out to do. It would be easy, so easy. Parrish kept a glass of water on the night table, told her the first night it let him wake up and know he was no longer in the desert. A drop in there would finish him.

But he had taken her to bed, kissed her gently between her shoulders, played with her hair. He murmured sweet words in her ear, and she fell asleep in the warmth of his arms.

The next day was the Borrak. She had the omegas send extra food down to Lord Peter, not wanting him to lose due to malnourishment. The Lord, when brought to the fighting chamber, appeared strong but dirty. His hair hung in greasy clumps and his hands were blackened by the mud of the dungeons.

Lydia had requested that it be a small affair, the day that Parrish told her. There was her, bearing witness for Parrish, T’ara, bearing witness for Lord Peter and no one else. Her mate wore no shirt to show off his burn markings. Her handprint sat center in his chest.

Lord Peter chose to shuck off his doublet as well, grimy as it was. His torso beneath wasn’t much cleaner but it was tight. He was a fighter, Lydia believed firmly.

T’ara stepped forward. “This is a Borrak, to the death. Issued by Lord Peter, over the death of his lady daughter. Accepted by Sovereign Parrish.” Most of the Borraks did not get the formal announcement until after one of the fighter’s hearts stopped beating.

“Parrish.” Lydia called over. It was best to do it now. It could be blamed on the Borrak, or perhaps on the injuries of the Borrak. She felt curiously absent in herself. Lydia was aware that her decision was the best for the kingdom, but she couldn’t say if it made it right.

She had done so much for the namesake of her kingdom. She could do this as well.

Parrish moved with her to a small wine table, set up in a bizarre way in the fighting room. She had already opened up her moonpearl and had it in a drink.

The glass could still be dropped. He didn’t have to take it from her.

“A drink. For fortitude.” Lydia handed over his glass. Parrish drank it without thinking, swallowing it all in three gulps.

She watched his throat work. “Thank you, little sun.” It had been a while since he had called her that. Or maybe he never stopped, and she just didn’t listen.

The Borrak started when both opponents stepped into a circle. They would not have to stay within the confines, but it was to signal that both were able and willing to fight. Lord Peter waited for Parrish.

Lydia held her breath when Parrish stepped in, already knowing the outcome. The wolf and shifter crouched down. They circled each other. T’ara came to stand beside her, held onto her hand. She knew that her scent was encased in worry, but it was worry over whether she had done the right thing or the easy thing.

Parrish swiped out quicker than a human eye could see. A red mark bloomed along the ribs of Lord Peter, who hunched in from the pain. Lord Peter darted back some. T’ara squeezed her hand, and Lydia squeezed back. It was smaller than Parrish’s, but firmer. It felt safer.

Parrish took a misstep. Lydia tried to see if it was an honest mistake or if it was due to poison. Lord Peter slashed out—Parrish moving back. Some blood dripped from the Sovereign’s arm.

Parrish stumbled again. Lord Peter rained down another blow and he was too slow to stop it. He struggled to breath, to stay upright. He fell the next time Lord Peter struck him. Parrish lay in an ever-expanding pool of his blood, and she watched as Lord Peter dropped to his knees. His knees landed on the Sovereign’s chest, arm raised.

Lydia looked away. The handprint on her chest went cold. She was told to expect that, when Parrish died. It would always be cold.

T’ara made a hurt sound but didn’t move. She didn’t attempt to challenge. It made her smarter than Parrish at least. Lydia looked back when she heard Lord Peter rise to his feet, ready to proclaim the match won.

He was moving towards them. T’ara disengaged from her and made to intercept him, posture defending Lydia. Lord Peter stopped at her, placing his hand directly on her chest. There was a feeling in the air of power shifting, and the red eyes that Lord Peter just had drained back to blue.

“Why?” T’ara asked.

“I know the rules of the Borrak. I don’t want to stay here—I want to go home and bury my daughter. I don’t want your queen; I want my people.” Lord Peter sneered, voice deceptively soft. “You can keep all this.”

“What do we tell the pack?” Lydia looked to Lord Peter. She knew he would not take her as bride, was secure in that fact, but thought she might lose her pack to him. She was no longer Alpha mate.

“Tell them what you want. Say that your Sovereign dishonored himself and T’ara righted it. Say that the Borrak never happened, that he was killed before. Say the truth. I don’t care.” And then, Lord Peter walked out the door. He left the new Sovereign, T’ara and the old Alpha mate alone in the fighting chamber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One, I believe this is the longest chapter I've written for this. 
> 
> Two, it is the technical end of the story. There will be a short epilogue (with a surprise POV from the Teen Wolf verse, not an OC) afterwards. 
> 
> The last chapter is coming out 6/19. 
> 
> (Also: common theme in my stories for Lydia is that she always gets the power she wants but at a GREAT personal cost)


	26. Scot

Scot hadn’t stopped running for four years. After three months, after he was back in his homelands and in a coastal town, he thought to the sea. There were plenty of ships that were looking for another hand on board. The busy season was the summer and fall. At the time, Scot thought that it would be enough time to slow down. 

It wasn’t. 

He jumped from ship to ship, and only set foot on land when unloading at the docks or for Stiles’ wedding. His brother had the formal rollout, in the Stilinski lands. The Argents were not in attendance. Queen Lydia was. She had a small boy in her hand, exceptionally quiet for his age. He waddled on fat legs and watched them all. T’ara followed closely behind her and took the child when Queen Lydia had to interact with others. 

There was a choice not to wander close enough to smell if they were together. Queen Lydia watched him avoid her and respected it. 

Scot was also invited back to the family mating run, in the Hale groves, but he declined. He was on Kira’s ship by that time and it was set to pull out to sea in a few days’ time. It was the first crew that he cared about keeping. 

He had stumbled onto Kira’s ship on accident, mostly. It was cresting winter and most of the shipyard emptied out. With less product to move, many returned home for the long winter. Kira’s ship kept moving. She was a spitfire, her dark hair catching his eye from the yard, pulling at ropes on her deck. Scot had hurried over to catch them before they left. 

“You’ve need for any help?” He asked. Scot learned how to speak like a commoner. It caused too much trouble with the crews to think they’ve got a lord’s boy on the ship. Rubs them wrong if he takes gold for his work and if he doesn’t. 

Scot had never felt like a prince, not when he was born as a commoner. And he didn’t feel as if he was a commoner anymore—not when he had a room in the Stilinski and Hale castle. 

“You ever worked a ship before?” She responded. Kira was clearly from the Republic, the name of her region on the tip of his tongue. It had been too long since he returned from where he came. 

“’Bout half a year now. I’m a quick learner, though.” 

“Alright. We’re headed to the Ito Islands. There’s some silk that we’re moving to Rose’s Keep.” She throws a rope down to him, not letting out the boardwalk for one man. 

The crew worked for the lords and ladies of the lands, and the high powers of the Republic. It allowed them the ability to move throughout the year, since silk and gold and finery did not grow stale or die out in the cold. 

Scot took a shine to the crew, almost immediately. They were a lively bunch and were mostly related to Kira. She was captain, young as she was. It takes a few months for Kira to tell him that she took over for her mother when it was time to retire. She lives on one of the Ito Islands and she visited when they move silk or jade. 

It took him longer to tell her that he’s a prince, on technicality. Almost six months. She guesses he’s not as rough as he claims when she sees the way he eats. Scot remembered his etiquette teacher, the way she’d slam a spoon on his knuckles when he performed less than perfect. Stiles would let his fingers purple. Scot, instead, learned. 

The news doesn’t change the way she responds to him. Kira would sometimes joke on his status but paid him no less or more. Gave no extra respect on merit of his name. It was refreshing. 

It is past the year mark, winter creeping in once more, when she kisses him. Scot had thought on it, in his bunk, what it would be like. Had come to term that he wanted. But he also knew that he would never move on his captain, at least to keep his position on the ship. 

Kira’s lips were nowhere near as soft as Princess Allison’s; they tasted of salt and are sharp where the skin has peeled up from her biting. He liked it. 

He liked her. Sometimes, in her presence, it felt less like he was running away and more like he was on a journey. It began to feel more and more like that as the years crept on. 

When he confessed this to her, laying naked in the captain’s quarters with sweat cooling off them, she said that time had a way of doing that. Changing whatever you once had into something different. 

It was spring now, and they were headed to the Cottleg desert. A rich Republic man had want of a kanima and had sent them out to find one willing to return to him. There were many sums involved, enough to make Scot’s head swim. He left that to Kira. She promised him that the kanima would be paid handsomely and free—or as free as any kanima—to leave should he so desire.

Scot had written a letter ahead of them. When they docked at one of the desert towns, taking some camels out to the sands, it took two nights to find where the letter ended up. 

There was a huge tent city in the sands. It was closer than any Sovereign would dare lay their pack. As they ambled in, wolf and shifter alike sat at the tents and shared bowls of mashed millet and cups of ale. The shifters had a hungry look to their face, were careful with how they watched the wolves. 

Scot knew these wolves were trained to put the shifters at ease. 

In the middle of the city, sat a simple, grey tent. It did not blend into the sands beneath it. Kira left him at the door. She leaned over and kissed him, some of the crew hooting behind them. They only continued to do so since it made Kira blush red. 

“We’re off to find a kanima. I’ll be back at some time.” Kira said. 

Scot nodded, watched them break into groups and wander back through the makeshift streets of the tent city. He opened the tent. 

Stiles and Prince Derrik sat at a table with three shifters. Two were clearly twins, and from the scent, one was with the other shifter. Stiles smiled when he saw Scot, rising to greet him. Scot could only think that he had toughened out, the soft of his arm turned wiry, shoulders somewhat broader. He was also a deep tan. 

“Scot! We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.” Stiles threw his arms around his brother. It feels good now, less like he was trying to hold onto the Prince Scot and more like he was welcoming him back. 

“The Yukimura is a very fast ship. Maybe you’ll be able to come see it.” 

“Maybe.” Stiles said. “We’ve got a few groups going out tomorrow, scouting. I’m meant to go with. But we’re set to come back in tomorrow night, if you can wait.” 

“Kira keeps us on a tight schedule.” Scot said, regretfully. 

“Ah, Kira.” Stiles’ smile grew. Scot had written his brother often, unable to come home, unwilling to break their bond. Scot blushed some, ducking his head. Before he can tease Scot too much, a throat clears at the table. Stiles turned back to the group. “I should introduce you!” 

He is ushered over to the table, where the shifters watch on with amusement. Scot cannot get a read on Prince Derrik. 

“You know my mate, my darling, my light and life and—” 

“Yes,” Scot said, mostly to get Stiles to stop talking. If he allowed him to finish his thought, it would undoubtedly turn filthy. He could not stand the embarrassment when meeting others. 

“Okay, I get it. These are Sovereigns Aiden and Ethan. Sovereign Ethan’s mate, Ser Jackson Whittemore.” They nod in turn. “We were just finishing up supply demands for tomorrow’s trip. I think it’s done…so maybe we could have dinner?” He suggested. 

“We’re done.” Sovereign Aiden said, voice deeper than he expected. “Jackson and Ethan wanted the night alone, and I have prior plans, so we’ll leave you.” 

“Prior plans with Corinne?” Stiles teased. In a room full of shifters and wolves, he was still fearless. Scot was glad to see that his brother hadn’t grown instinct in self-survival. 

“Actually, yes.” Sovereign Aiden sniffed. “She agreed to have dinner with me.” 

“It only took you three months.” Sovereign Ethan said. 

They left bickering; Ser Whittemore trailed after them. He smiled to the trio on the way out. Scot smiled back, a real one, though perhaps less wide than five years prior. Stiles said, “I’ll go find Tyari. She’s the cook for the group, and she always leaves some leftovers for us.” 

Then it is just Prince Derrik and Scot. He stands nervous for a moment. Scot is happy that Stiles has found his forever but feels the gap between the two wolves. He never understood why there was one. “So…how has the relocation been going?” 

Prince Derrik looked at him. “Hard. We’re trying to balance teaching and training. No one wants to feel like they’re sending in shifters to work in the undesirable positions, or that we’re sending them in to become a kingdom problem. The shifters also often think we are lying to them, in some form or fashion to harm them. Stiles in unused to the pushback the Hale lands are giving.” 

“You’re sending them up to Hale lands?” 

“Not many of them. My mother has agreed to take some, into the guard, to show approval for shifters. Most are going into the Martin or Stilinski kingdoms. In the unconquered woods of the borders.” Prince Derrik said. 

“And the citizens of Hale aren’t happy with you because of it.” Scot surmised. 

Prince Derrik laughed. “The people of Hale have never been happy with me. At least I can put their disapproval to good use.” 

“That’s a good way to look at it.” 

“It’s not as if I will be king there. And the Stilinski people seem to be warming up to me.” 

“It’s dangerous out on the desert sands.” Scot said, though he would never say it to Stiles. “Be careful to make sure you’ll both be able to return to be kings.” 

“You don’t want to rule?” Prince Derrik asked. 

“Oh, Kira wouldn’t like that.” Scot responded. He didn’t think she would. They enjoyed the sea, enjoyed the rigorous work associated with cargo moving, enjoyed the crew. Kira wanted to settle onto the Ito Islands when she grew too weary to continue. Scot agreed. 

“So, you are planning on marrying her?” 

“I guess so.” He’d already bought a ring. Custom in the Republic. Tucked it away on his side of their bunk but knew that Kira had found it. They were both just waiting. “Yeah.” 

“I’m happy for you.” Prince Derrik said. “It only gets easier from here.” 

Scot knew what he was talking on, talking on their lost loves. He couldn’t help but agree. “I think so, too.” 

Stiles sang a tune about a fisherman falling for a dolphin, thinking she was a mermaid, as he came up to the tent. Scot remembered writing the lyrics to him. Prince Derrik pushed out a chair for Scot to sit and they waited for his brother to come in with their food. There was much to discuss and Scot, for once, looked forward to settling into a long meal and longer conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks, that's all. 
> 
> I might write a small thing in verse for like, how the whole relocation process is going. But honestly, that won't be done in Stiles and Derrik's life time. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and keeping up with me!


End file.
